The Day I Conquered My Fear of The Whole Chicken…

I don’t think I am a terrible cook. I am most definitely NOT a fearless cook. I am good at following directions, the teacher in me still lives on. I am the kind of cook who follows a recipe EXACTLY.

When it comes to meats, I don’t venture out of those falling into the plob-able category. Otherwise known as meats packaged in such a way as to be plopped into a pan, crock pot, cooking contraption without being touched. By me. With bare hands. We eat a lot of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, ground turkey, lean ground beef…

And then I started reading The Kitchen Counter Cooking School: How a Few Simple Lessons Transformed Ten Culinary Novices into Fearless Home Cooks by Kathleen Flinn.

And I was inspired to conquer a lifetime long fear: the whole chicken.

Laugh if you must, but there is something about touching a whole chicken, CLEANING a whole chicken, giblets…that totally skeeves me out. A lot. But I figured it was time. I have paced my culinary kitchen endeavors throughout my marriage to where roasting a whole chicken would be a big day. And a new milestone, elevating me to a new culinary status.

Armed with a recipe, I shopped for the goods. Picked up my soon-to-be nemesis and prepared for battle:

“Are those gardening gloves?” Oh, no she didn’t.

Oh, yes I did.

I broke out my apron, because isn’t it like a super hero’s cape, infused with magic and super power traits? Meant to protect me from bodily harm from a fowl experience gone foul.

I prepped the garlic. Cut the lemons. Had everything ready to go and started to read the recipe:

“Remove the chicken giblets. Rinse the chicken inside and out. Remove any excess fat and leftover pin feathers and pat the outside dry.”

HOLD THE PHONE. FEATHERS?!@#

I quickly re-evaluated: I could drive to Costco in about ten minutes, spend a third as much on a rotisserie chicken, PLOP that bad boy on a platter and no one would be the wiser. No giblets. No FEATHERS.

Intent on conquering the fear and showing my boys I could be all apron-y and cook-y in the kitchen, I powered through. Nearly lost my lunch. The feeling and textures and cavities…were NASTY. No lie.

But I did it.

Me: 1, Chicken: 0. This day could also be known as the day I broke the hand washing world record…

 I jacked up some of the skin removing the bacon half way through roasting. Another yuck, touching bacon. Blech.

I was crazy proud of this damn chicken. Hence, the numerous photos. Proof.

The house smelled amazing. The husband LOVED it and was shocked. I am certain he didn’t really believe I had cooked it myself. Yet further proof of my culinary pacing success, heh. Just imagine if I had done this years ago, I’d be stuck cleaning and de-nasty-fying chickens on a much more regular basis.

Whole chicken: roasted, eaten, in the books. Holla.

Big day.