PARIS
This traditional French recipe is a piece of cake.
Have one child, at least three years old, by your side. Preferably, he should be standing on a chair, so that he’s about the same height as you. He’ll have to pay careful attention over the course of several Sundays. Should the mood strike him, he could offer an improvised vocal and hand-clapping musical accompaniment. As for the chicken, it’s a cinch. All you’ve got to do is stuff it with a preserved lemon and a little fresh tarragon (NOT an onion). Then, put it in the oven. For a long time. Overcooking (say, an hour and a half) isn’t a problem. In fact, it might be just the ticket. Undercooking, well…not so good. There’s nothing worse than a chicken with pink armpits.
On your fourth attempt, ask the child to undertake the preparations. He slips the lemon and tarragon in the bird’s keister and, with your help, skewers it mercilessly (while emitting, should he so desire, the ferocious cries of his favorite comic book and cartoon characters). Carry the skewered bird together over to the oven. You could put a cushion on the ground and sit and watch the bird rotate on the spit. It’s better than television. As good as a fireplace, anyway. You could discuss the sauce (grated ginger, balsamic vinegar, honey, coriander, lemon juice, raisins, Muscat, figs….depending on the season). You could tell each other stories. Or just sit and watch. Or maybe even fall asleep, since it’s nice and warm by the oven.
Once the chicken is cooked, the child is under no obligation to eat it. He can help you slice it, garnish the plates (with, say, coins of varying denominations, chocolate squares, Q-tips, etc.), and serve it. Believe me, it’s an experience that he’ll never forget. Neither will you. Nor, of course, will the chicken.
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