Poultry Zen

Home. Awake. That doesn't sound like much of an accomplishment, but these days, it is. I love going back to States, but I find I spend more and more time running in circles like a headless chicken. That's a lie - I had 4 uber relaxing days in San Francisco, if you put aside the issue of my dead laptop, which kept me from taking advantage of the very pleasant cafe-office culture. (San Francisco is a bit like Paris that way. No one looks like they actually work for a living...)

I'm back in Provnce, I slept through the night for the first time in a week, and as of right now, I aspire to be a chicken WITH a head. A chicken with its head screwed on straight, to be exact. I need to stay put for a while. Experience life here. It's almost gardening time, and I'll need to learn to plant my peas right side up, and which corner of the courtyard will be best for purple basil.

With this aura of poultry-zen in mind, I've found a woman at Apt market who raises and prepares her own birds. She leaves the heart and liver in, so they conserve better.

Yesterday was my second experience with a head-on chicken. (For those vegetarians who I continue to alienate with my beady-eyed dinners, I'm making a lovely veggie cous cous stew tonight, the recipe to be posted forthwith.) Gutting the remaining bits was quite visceral - queue that squishy sound that accompanies field medics in WWI films. More troubling still, it appears I've spent much of my life looking at a chicken upside down. We are so used to cooking and serving chickens breast-up, I just got it in my head that they walk around that way. (Yes, this is one of the many, many reasons no one has ever asked me to fly an airplane.) Similar to the first time I saw a whole leek, it's taken me more time than I'd like to admit to figure out which end is up.

The first chicken I purchased was a poule au pot - a older stewing chicken, meant to sit in a covered casserole with vegetables, water, salt and rice for several hours - producing a falling apart bird and a thick, well-greased peasant risotto. The vendeuse doling out her instructions at top speed, I failed to catch the rice bit, so I ended up with a passable, (if painting worthy) stewed chicken, and a lot of fatty broth. Doesn't she look peaceful, though?

This week, I bought a pintade - guinea fowl - a trickier, but more flavorful bird. It requires a slow roast in a moderate heat, to keep everything moist and supple. I decided to add some red potatoes, a few rehydrated shitake mushrooms and a splash of white wine to the bottom of the pan.

2 1/2 hours later, the result was less than thrilling. Something about his grumpy visage took me back to the day my father almost vomited during "The Dark Crystal". Not ideal for jetlag recovery. Apparently, cooking - as well as being- a chicken with a head requires some practice...