Stuffing a chicken with garlic

I saw somewhere this morning that today is meant to be the first day of Spring. That could be right. The garden is about to burst into colour. A few daffodils are out already if they have been able to get some sun and a half dozen bluebells are giving colour in the woody shade under the orange lobelia. Rather to my surprise there are a few tulips that have come up from the bulbs I planted last year amongst the apple trees.It appears that more than I thought managed to survive the greed and ravages of the squirrels.

Last night we ate the second of the five chickens I bought to stock up with from The Farmer’s Market. It was the biggest and I stuffed it with garlic.

There is something very satisfying in stuffing a chicken under its skin. It is a question of using your fingers to push their way up carefully easing the skin away from the meat to create a pocket into which the stuffing can be stuffed. It is dirty work but once the stuffing is in their it can forced into the odd corner by smoothing over the skin. This has the added bonus of allowing some of the flavour to be rubbed off onto the skin.

The stuffing was a mixture of garlic, coriander and saffron courtesy of the first Moro cookbook.

The garlic was soften in simmering milk. A couple of tablespoons of the hot milk was but in a bowl with an extravagant amount of saffron. It quickly took on a beautifully dep yellow colour. Once the garlic was soft it was taken out of the milk and allowed to cool. Then each of the cloves was squeezed out into the bowl with the milk and saffron. Ground cumin was tipped in along with some chopped coriander and olives oil. The gloves were crushed with a fork and it was all mixed together.

A frog chorus

Spring must be here.Walking out into the garden the sun was out and there was a particular brightness in the air.

Yesterday afternoon when I had walked out into the garden there was a noticeable plopping as I got close to the pond but no sign of what might have been responsible as I got close enough to see.

I was more circumspect with my approach this afternoon and was rewarded first with the low burping sound of frogs in rut and then with the sight of them heads up through the weed. I think one of them might have been a toad, it was thicker and more robust than the others.

Some of the frogs had an obese look about them as they hung on the surface. They were less bothered by my approach and I assume they were females about to release their spawn. Hopefully by next weekend the pond will slick with spawn.

This evening we have had our last chicken. I furtled under the skin of its breast to stuff it with garlic, butter and herbs and then left it to roast. It was particularly good with roast potatoes and carrots boiled with honey.

And in the meantime the first of the bluebells had come out.

Getting emotional over chicken

Six and a half years ago we were in Borough Market and I had made my way over to Brindisi  looking for good Spanish food to buy and take home. I ended up buying a 1 kilo tin of paprika. It has sat by the oven ever since and normally gets opened once or twice a week so that some of its magic can be added to whatever I might be cooking.

The use by date passed years ago but that didn’t seem to make too much difference to the flavour.

I used up the last of it today on some chicken thighs bought from The Farmers Market. The thighs were fried in a pan that I had used last night to fry up some potatoes and garlic. The bits of burnt garlic stuck to the bottom of the pan added to the taste.

Once the thighs were done they were sliced up and we ate them stuffed into a baguette with Turkish peppers, salad, onion and tomato.

It is likely they will be the last chicken thighs I will be able to buy from The Farmer’s Market.

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OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

The chicken stall will be there in April but we will be away. In the circumstances it seemed sensible to stock up and there are now four fat chickens downstairs in the freezer. I will have to eke them out over the course of the next few months.

I got the fifth chicken for tomorrows lunch.

Over the years I have barely exchanged a half dozen words with the two men who work the stall but today I told them they would be missed in the market and that I would miss their very fine chicken.

Dreaming of mackerel

Ralph Bullivant's avatarSheep's Head Food Company

It was 1.00 in the early afternoon and I was sat on the wall on the other side of the road from Arundel’s Pub looking out over the bay. The sun was high up in a clear blue sky but there was a slight breeze to take some of the fierceness out of the heat. I had come up for a pint before cooking lunch. We had been out catching mackerel and there were twelve of them in the fridge, filleted and ready to go. I could see the smoke from a fire on the beach that had been lit in readiness for the fish. It would need another fifteen minutes or so for the flames to die before the fish needed to go on the black grill.

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The pub had been empty when I went in get my pint. It had been poured slowly and surely and I went…

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