Tales of Two Chickens (and One Fish)

Since Master makes frequent supermarket runs, and seems to enjoy shopping, I've been entrusting him with the selection of the "protein" for our dinners. We've been eating a lot of chicken. And that's fine with me. What could be more versatile? With so little character of its own, it's a meat that provides a fine canvas for my dabblings in different flavor profiles. It's best when there's time for a long, leisurely marinade, but this isn't always possible. Take last Friday, for example. I had to see Iron Man 2 on opening day. Otherwise, what's the point, right? Even a late-afternoon showing got me to Master's place a little too late to start cooking, prompting a resort to a mutually agreeable Plan B of dinner at a Chinese restaurant. I promised to (over)compensate with a home-cooked Saturday lunch, which had the upshot of giving the chicken breasts the benefit of an overnight soak in white wine, Dijon mustard, fresh-squeezed orange juice, honey, garlic, tarragon and thyme. They were practically tipsy with flavor by the time they hit the oven, on a bed of carrots, celery, onion, and parsnips. Snow peas, steamed along with a quantity of basmati rice and drizzled with a hot vinaigrette, rounded out a plate that more than made up for the prior evening's laziness. The chicken was juicy and full-flavored, and the vinaigrette - shallots, butter, mustard, honey, orange juice, the last of the wine - made every bite of the sweet, crisp pea pods a reason to celebrate. Not bad for an improvisation. I need to start recording my recipes.

It was practicality rather than apathy that led me to douse the chicken thighs with bottled BBQ sauce for Wednesday night's dinner. I'm all for making sauces from scratch... when they don't require a good 2-3 hours of patient simmering. Freshened up with a few thyme sprigs and bay leaves, since I can't leave well enough alone, was more than serviceable. I could hardly have done better. Before the chicken could be baked, though, minor disaster had to be averted. While preheating, the oven belched smoke, sending Master into door-slamming panic mode. And not without reason, I'll say, having now experienced the full-on pandemonium of police and firefighter response instigated by a few overdone pancakes one fateful Saturday morning. Upon inspection, we realized that the oleaginous drippings of some garlic bread toasted without a tray for/by (who can remember?) dinner guests on Sunday evening had fallen on the heating element. No longer nearly apoplectic, though still cursing the carelessness that led to the brink of catastrophe, Master scrubbed away the burnt residue and pronounced the oven once again fit for use.

I focused on the slaw. It was my interpretation of one of Master's favorites, the broccoli slaw at Café Martin in Shelburne Falls, MA. I'd only sampled a few forkfuls of this house special, so it was always going to be a loose rendition. They finely chop their broccoli; I decided to shred mine. But two medium broccoli stems don't grate down to much. Even with a couple of carrots added as filler, it was necessary to stretch the portions further with some mixed shredded cabbage. If it means Master eating more raw vegetables, I have no problem with that. My dressing of sour cream, mayonnaise, honey, lemon juice and parsley was thicker than theirs but no less delicious. Ultimately, the only thing our two slaws had in common was the dried cranberries. But Master seemed just as enamored of mine as he is of Café Martin's, so I'll call it a success and expect many encore requests for this one in the near future.

I'd been eager to put the "new wisdom" regarding the preparation of asparagus, as reported in a recent New York Times Sunday magazine, to the test. So I was happy that Master had picked up a bundle during his grocery shopping. Typical of Stop & Shop produce, these spears were freakishly large. I was concerned that the revisionist, parboil-shunning saute method cited above wouldn't work as well for such thick asparagus. I was mistaken. Eight minutes in a hot pan with a few tablespoons of olive oil produced succulent, ever so lightly caramelized, and thoroughly cooked spears. A little butter and fresh lemon juice, and a sprinkling of toasted almonds, made this the best asparagus I've ever tasted or served. Here's one vegetable I will never boil again.

The plate above was the result of a rare collaborative shopping effort. Master and I had ventured out one Friday to the Big Y in North Branford, lured by a special deal on strawberries. The strawberries were sold out, alas. But the seafood department had beautiful line-caught salmon to offer, and dark, leafy kale and (a personal favorite) Persian cucumbers were to be found in the produce section. I remember that it was a very warm day, so I kept the meal light. Boiled new potatoes with parsley and a hint of butter and the sauteed kale accompanied broiled salmon, sauced with mustard, white wine, and fresh tarragon. The cucumbers, thinly sliced, salted, rinsed, and tossed with slivers of ice-cold shallot, were the surprise hit. I was concerned that the citrus dressing was too tart, but Master couldn't get enough of it. I think I've broadened his palate since we started dining together. If that's the case, I couldn't be prouder, or happier.