Meandering through Costco on a Friday afternoon, I happened upon an amazing looking book entitled "I Know How to Cook." The cover lured me in, featuring a vibrant 60's style drawing of a woman winking and biting into an olive. I stroked the cover and gazed longingly at the oversized four inch thick tome, wishing I could explore the wonders within when I noticed one open copy for perusal a few feet away. I curiously read the inside cover and discovered that this was the first English translation of a 75 year old French cookbook, which happens to have been the best- selling cookbook in France for the past three generations. Learning that "Je Sais Cuisiner" (the original French title) has been an essential fixture on the counters of French kitchens made this an indispensable item for me.
As I browsed through this gastronomy-centered masterpiece I found a chart indicating which meats, cheeses, fruits and vegetables should be consumed during each month and a miraculous 1500 recipes that ranged from simple (Roquefort butter) to complex (Calves' Liver Loaf.) The wisdom it offered on seasonality, necessary tools for every kitchen and instructions for poaching, de-boning and braising were thrilling. Without further consideration, I hoisted the massive volume from its place and went about toting it to the cashier stand. Excited with my new discovery, I was even more pleased that this $45 gem was a mere $26 at Costco. Then again, would I expect anything less from this genius warehouse?
Since Friday was comprised of seeing The September Issue and dining at Via Tribunali with my companion Sam, I offered that Brett choose something from our new kitchen centerpiece so that I may prepare him dinner on Saturday night. He opted for Paprika Chicken and Green Beans a la Niçoise.
After my 5pm Bikram class I set forth to meet Brett at Ballard Market in order to procure the necessary ingredients for our French feast which included chicken stock, a whole chicken, crème fraiche, fresh green beans, and tomato sauce (the rest of the supplies were already on hand.) I was thrilled to make such a lovely dinner and wished my schedule were such that I could cook (and gallivant, of course) all the time.
With everything purchased, we returned home and I set to work in my favorite room of the house. Cooking is a production in theatrics, an effort akin to conducting a symphony. I wrapped my apron around my waist and poured a glass of wine—a libation indispensable during the formation of culinary creations.
My first order of business was to deconstruct Fernando, the name I gave to our two pound chicken. Cooking chicken breasts is one thing—I’m easily able to disassociate myself from the fact that this was once an animal. But cutting up a whole chicken is another moral dilemma altogether, especially when you can see where its feet were supposed to be, and when you rub your hands over his dimpled skin that is so obviously where his feathers once were. In order to pay respects to this bird that would be providing us nourishment for the evening, I thought it only appropriate that I should give him a name. Taking a deep swig of wine and lobotomizing myself the best I could, I set about putting on my surgeon’s cap and grabbed the sharpest knife in the kitchen. Another handy thing about “I Know How to Cook” is that it provided a step by step breakdown of how one cuts apart a whole chicken, though the process itself is actually pretty instinctual. I tugged on Fernando’s left leg, and began sawing away until I hit the bone, at which point I had to bend and snap the joint. I harkened back to my days in eighth grade biology when we performed autopsies on pig fetuses. At least this didn’t smell like formaldehyde, I consoled myself. Continuing in the same manner as with the first leg, the second leg and two wings were chopped off in mere minutes and Fernando was now a limbless carcass, resting in my sink. At this point, I called Brett over to the kitchen to have him assist in removing the breasts. While he acted as my sous-chef, I began browning the meat in a generous hunk of butter on the stovetop.
While the usable parts were browning, I cleaned the countertops to make sure any residual Fernando juice was gone. Once the pallor had disappeared and a warm chestnut colour took its place, I turned off the flame and began transferring each piece to an oversized Le Crueset baking dish. Snugly arranged, I poured the remaining butter along with a cup of chicken stock over the top, covered the dish with aluminum foil and baked it in the oven at 350* for one hour.
Now that the chicken was underway, it was time to prepare the green beans a la Niçoise. While the pot of water set to achieve a rolling boil, I busied myself by snipping off the ends of each bean and then slowly added them a handful at a time so that the water returned to a boil each time before I added anymore (this, according to my cookbook, keeps the beans a bright green.) After 12 minutes, I drained the beans, returned them to the pot and mixed in a cup of tomato sauce, allowing them to simmer for the next half hour.
Once the chicken was complete, it was time to prepare our meal for presentation. I arranged the chicken on a bright yellow platter that had belonged to my grandma and then went about to complete the sauce. The final part of the recipe requires that you whisk in a cup of crème fraiche with the cooking juices and add two pinches of paprika, which I’m fairly certain is only for colouring purpouses and has no actual impact on the palette of the meal. (Either that, or my paprika is broken.) It was pleasing to see that the juices and crème fraiche mixed together perfectly rather than coddle. After drizzling the concoction atop the chicken, the main course was ready to go. I spooned the beans onto our plates and sprinkled fresh parsley on top.
As I browsed through this gastronomy-centered masterpiece I found a chart indicating which meats, cheeses, fruits and vegetables should be consumed during each month and a miraculous 1500 recipes that ranged from simple (Roquefort butter) to complex (Calves' Liver Loaf.) The wisdom it offered on seasonality, necessary tools for every kitchen and instructions for poaching, de-boning and braising were thrilling. Without further consideration, I hoisted the massive volume from its place and went about toting it to the cashier stand. Excited with my new discovery, I was even more pleased that this $45 gem was a mere $26 at Costco. Then again, would I expect anything less from this genius warehouse?
Since Friday was comprised of seeing The September Issue and dining at Via Tribunali with my companion Sam, I offered that Brett choose something from our new kitchen centerpiece so that I may prepare him dinner on Saturday night. He opted for Paprika Chicken and Green Beans a la Niçoise.
After my 5pm Bikram class I set forth to meet Brett at Ballard Market in order to procure the necessary ingredients for our French feast which included chicken stock, a whole chicken, crème fraiche, fresh green beans, and tomato sauce (the rest of the supplies were already on hand.) I was thrilled to make such a lovely dinner and wished my schedule were such that I could cook (and gallivant, of course) all the time.
With everything purchased, we returned home and I set to work in my favorite room of the house. Cooking is a production in theatrics, an effort akin to conducting a symphony. I wrapped my apron around my waist and poured a glass of wine—a libation indispensable during the formation of culinary creations.
My first order of business was to deconstruct Fernando, the name I gave to our two pound chicken. Cooking chicken breasts is one thing—I’m easily able to disassociate myself from the fact that this was once an animal. But cutting up a whole chicken is another moral dilemma altogether, especially when you can see where its feet were supposed to be, and when you rub your hands over his dimpled skin that is so obviously where his feathers once were. In order to pay respects to this bird that would be providing us nourishment for the evening, I thought it only appropriate that I should give him a name. Taking a deep swig of wine and lobotomizing myself the best I could, I set about putting on my surgeon’s cap and grabbed the sharpest knife in the kitchen. Another handy thing about “I Know How to Cook” is that it provided a step by step breakdown of how one cuts apart a whole chicken, though the process itself is actually pretty instinctual. I tugged on Fernando’s left leg, and began sawing away until I hit the bone, at which point I had to bend and snap the joint. I harkened back to my days in eighth grade biology when we performed autopsies on pig fetuses. At least this didn’t smell like formaldehyde, I consoled myself. Continuing in the same manner as with the first leg, the second leg and two wings were chopped off in mere minutes and Fernando was now a limbless carcass, resting in my sink. At this point, I called Brett over to the kitchen to have him assist in removing the breasts. While he acted as my sous-chef, I began browning the meat in a generous hunk of butter on the stovetop.
While the usable parts were browning, I cleaned the countertops to make sure any residual Fernando juice was gone. Once the pallor had disappeared and a warm chestnut colour took its place, I turned off the flame and began transferring each piece to an oversized Le Crueset baking dish. Snugly arranged, I poured the remaining butter along with a cup of chicken stock over the top, covered the dish with aluminum foil and baked it in the oven at 350* for one hour.
Now that the chicken was underway, it was time to prepare the green beans a la Niçoise. While the pot of water set to achieve a rolling boil, I busied myself by snipping off the ends of each bean and then slowly added them a handful at a time so that the water returned to a boil each time before I added anymore (this, according to my cookbook, keeps the beans a bright green.) After 12 minutes, I drained the beans, returned them to the pot and mixed in a cup of tomato sauce, allowing them to simmer for the next half hour.
Once the chicken was complete, it was time to prepare our meal for presentation. I arranged the chicken on a bright yellow platter that had belonged to my grandma and then went about to complete the sauce. The final part of the recipe requires that you whisk in a cup of crème fraiche with the cooking juices and add two pinches of paprika, which I’m fairly certain is only for colouring purpouses and has no actual impact on the palette of the meal. (Either that, or my paprika is broken.) It was pleasing to see that the juices and crème fraiche mixed together perfectly rather than coddle. After drizzling the concoction atop the chicken, the main course was ready to go. I spooned the beans onto our plates and sprinkled fresh parsley on top.
A hearty, wholesome aroma enveloped our home and evoked a sort of cozy snowed-in vibe. Candles bathed the room in a soft, warm glow and we prepared to dine at our not oft used pub table. After settling in and pouring hearty glasses of wine, Brett chose a wing and a leg, and I went unadventurously for a breast (knowing Fernando as intimately as I had—I couldn’t bring myself to eat his limbs.) We both dipped each bite into the sauce on the platter and enjoyed the creamy juiciness of the chicken. The beans were tasty as well: simple and wholesome. Though easy to make, they had this sort of chicness about them which likely stems from the fact that they came from my French cookbook.
We dined casually and continentally, both thoroughly enjoying the meal- and so I was inspired to undertake a new endeavor the following day...
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