Back in the pot

I couldn’t waste a piece of that fabulous chicken – the nameless bird is back in the pot, this time stripped of his flesh. The bones and juices from the slow cooker, half a bulb of fennel, an onion, a carrot, a giant purple garlic clove, some bay leaves and pepper corns are bubbling away making a fabulous chicken stock.

Does such a long live’d bird need a name?

Slow Food

Last night we roasted an organic chicken in the slow cooker … outrageous flavour, but it looked awful. No crispy skinned glistening bird sitting proudly in it’s pan, but a soggy thing that I extracted in pieces from the cooker and piled with veges.

BJ was home from work at lunchtime and squashed the defrosted bird into the cooker on low. When I came home at 6.30 our house smelt like a chicken shop – such an intense fragrance. And moist. And it tasted like chicken, which is the first time I’ve tasted real chicken in a long time.

The last time I whole roasted a bird was for a dinner party. We named it Trevor Malcolm and had a solemn carving ceremony prepared, until one of our guests revealed that “Trevor Malcolm” was his fathers name. Shame.