Hot damn, people. If you're a meat eater, one of the greatest things you could ever possibly do is roast a damn chicken.
That's right, I'm holding your attention hostage and talking about roasting chickens. This should tell you how awesome it is. And it's so damn easy that I can't believe it's taken me until twenty eight years of age to learn this. I mean, you need a pot or roasting pan big enough for a chicken and a meat thermometer. That's the most complicated thing about it is having a pot.
Want to roast a damn chicken? Here's how:
First, go to the grocery store. Buy a whole damned chicken. Raw. Put that rotisserie chicken down; no cheating. Then, get a lemon, a bulb of garlic, and some twine. Do you have salt and pepper at home? If not, buy some. Otherwise, take all that shit home because you, my friend, are about to roast a damn chicken.
Second, pour yourself a glass of scotch.
Third, wash the damn chicken and pat it dry. Slice a couple cloves of garlic and toss them into the chicken cavity. Then poke some holes in the lemon and toss it in the cavity. Then, tie the legs shut, and cover the damn thing in salt and pepper. Both sides - top and bottom.
Fourth, throw your pot into the oven and preheat the sonofabitch to 425 degrees for a half hour.
Pour yourself more scotch.
Been a half hour? Throw that damned chicken in the pot, breast side up. You hear that sizzle? That means freaking magic is in your oven, and it's doing it's thing.
Wait twenty minutes. Then flip the bird (yeah I said it) and wait twenty more minutes. Have more scotch. Then, flip the bird again (said it twice!) and wait another twenty minutes.
By now, it's been an hour and you've had yourself a lot of scotch and you don't even give a damn you just want to tear into that bird. But don't do that yet. Put the meat thermometer in there and make sure it says "This damn chicken's not going to kill you" before you take it out.
Does it say "This damn chicken's not going to kill you" yet? No? Leave it.
How 'bout now? Yeah? Here's what you do.
Take that pot out of the oven and let the chicken chill out for a bit. Then take the damn chicken, which is now officially roasted, and put it on a cutting board.
If you know how to carve a chicken, you can carve the chicken. But, let's be honest, by now you've had a lot of scotch and you've been waiting for what seems like your whole life and goddamn it you got to get you some of that damn roast chicken. So tear into it. Tear into it and cover your face in crispy chicken skin and chicken juices and just eat.
Tear into it until you've lost your mind and you have no idea what time it is or where you are and you just want to sleep.
Then, in the morning, wake up and look around. Your kitchen is in disarray - there are pots and pans and knives and bones all over the place and you have no idea what happened, just that the scotch is all gone. For a brief moment, you think: 'I can't remember what I did last night. Oh God, what did I do? Did I kill again?'
But no, you didn't. You just made a damn roast chicken all on your lonesome, and you go to check the fridge and guess what? Three day's worth of chicken meat, neatly packed in Tupperware containers, and guess what? It's still delicious. And guess what? It's still cooked and not going to kill you. And you wonder how, in the name of God and all that's sacred and holy, did you managed to roast a whole damn chicken, without burning your hands and face off?
I told you how. Didn't you hear me say 'magic?'