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Moving on...
One thing I CAN do well is cook. I'm not talking about gourmet souffle-flambee-french-sounding-words-that-end-in-the-"A"-sound type things, but stick-to-your-ribs homestyle cooking. (I am also exceptionally good at using run-on sentences. I don't know if that's really a skill, but I need the boost so I'm claiming it.) You know: meatballs, mashed potatoes, steak, kabobs, french toast, etc. Utilizing this skill, last night I decided to make a roast chicken for dinner.
I like cooking roast chicken. It always makes me feel a little bit like a legitimate housewife. You know, instead of the slacker modern mom that I am who spends half of her time chasing her kids in her PJs and the other half of her time complaining about it. In her PJ's. So there I was (not in my PJs, I might add) boiling potatoes and measuring stuffing and basting my chicken which was roasting away in the oven. As if she understood my desire to live up to the Betty Crocker of 1955, Glitter Fairy Princess insisted that we get dressed up and have a "fancy-makeup-party" while we cooked.
After an hour and a half I figured it was probably done, so I tested the temperature. And wanted to cry. After all that time the stupid little 4-pound bird was only 130 degrees! Now, if you don't cook this won't mean much to you, but I was aiming for 180 degrees. It's a reasonable goal that should be easily attained after 90 minutes in a 350 degree oven. It's not rocket science. (Which we've established that I suck at.)
My family was hungry. I was hungry. The sides were getting cold. So we did what anyone else would do. We had a big dinner of carbs. That's right, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and salad. And the chicken? Well, it was FINALLY reading at 180 degrees 3 HOURS after I put it in the oven. I don't know what went wrong. The oven is working fine. The chicken was bought fresh, not frozen. It's like I bought a reject chicken that resisted basic principles of cooking. What I do know is that it'll be a while before I attempt to roast another chicken.
Not one to waste, though, I've decided to look on the bright side. Now I have a fully-cooked chicken to use in some OTHER recipe this week. Considering the amount of grief the damn thing gave me last night I'll enjoy picking it apart.
Tamales, anyone?
7 comments:
I had an ovenstuffer do that to me the other day. The damn thermometer wouldn't pop up. TOOK FOREVER!! So we had salad and mashed potatoes for dinner and hubby and I had chicken an hour later after the boys were asleep!
I wish I had the answer for you. I have roasted a chicken before -- just once. Having to pluck a last remaining feather sort of creeped me out and made me never want to deal with a whole bird again. I seem to remember that the chicken cooked through just fine, but I couldn't eat it because of that stupid feather experience.
I've decided that it must have something to do with the growth hormones or something. I've heard of two other people who've had this problem recently. And MJ, that would creep me out too. I couldn't be a pioneer woman. I prefer my food to not resemble it's natural form when I get it.
I'm an awful cook. That's why I married a chef. ;)
Nice shoes! I was expecting a certain pair of white heeled sandals... No, I'm never going to let you live that down! :)
Oh, I'm an awful cook. I wish I could cook better but it's just not in the cards for me. My family gets a lot of macaroni and cheese and frozen pizzas for dinner.
I am a terrible cook, so I say heck yes, blame the bird. It resisted cooking and defied cooking laws!
LOL! If I still lived around the corner, I would definitely be trying to borrow those heels.
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