Thursday July 31
Our free-range Mennonite chicken from Indian Lake came out of the freezer today. I can't help but picture that as a rooster in plain black garb and a feather headdress strolling casually out of a cooler. Anyway, he was a longer, taller bird than your average supermarket chicken, without those puffy, inflated breasts (now he's apparently transsexual). We find, though, that defrosting a well-frozen chicken takes all day, plus an additional run under cold water to get the last ice crystals out. Holt worked chopped fresh parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme up under the nice yellow skin, put the usual lemon up his (the chicken's) butt, and set it to roasting.
In the meantime, Barbara went out into the garden and discovered that the Golden Ball heirloom turnips she'd planted a couple of months ago had burgeoned mightily, and were ready to pick. Just three, chopped into batons, went into the roaster among the chicken fat and juices, accompanied by the five last shallots in the bin. They caramelized nicely, and were delicious with the well-herbed chicken breasts.
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