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.