If I were a chicken I’d die this minute. Of some awful disease which would make no one but on one wish to throw me into the stock pot. Brillat-Savarin (him of an inflated ego) says “Poultry is for the cook what canvas is for the painter”. Let’s leave aside that the statement is vacuous at best – as empty as that canvas at worst.
Yes, you have guessed right. I am in despair. And it’s only seven in the morning. Best antidote to which is to declutter not least what can only be called obscene: My collection of cookery books. It goes into hundreds and that’s only those I have bought or been given by those who let me cook for them. If I’d bought all others that have taken my fancy over the years I’d be sleeping under the sky (books needing to be kept dry). Yes, such is the extent of my current Titanic. I am fond of the Titanic. It set off full of hope and then hit the tip of an iceberg. Since I live just round the corner from its Southampton shipping office water has seeped into my hull.
Where were we: Books. It’s one of the hall marks of getting older (or when surrounded by those who insist of dying on you whilst you are trying to do your best to enjoy life) that I can’t stand being reminded of that which – in truth – will now have never a chance to flash in my pan.
There comes a time in life when you know the best way to deal with the canvas aka chicken. And for that you will – no longer – need the recipe.