Yard Bird
FerFukSake #1
Yard Bird
I still wake up at 5 am and sit here in the dark with Reg the wonder dog drinking coffee. Every so often it seems like Wyoming creeps down over the mountain passes as we've had a week of crazy 50 mile an hour winds pummeling us from the north. The trees tumble back and forth in an ache for summer monsoons and calmer days. I've been spending some time working on the house but I find myself not wanting to do too much. It's a fine house and we don't need much. We've never needed much. This has been our saving grace. Just making a few updates will go well with a little effort and the resulting aching back.
Life seems fairly boring these days but we are lucky in our abundance. Gone are the years of ambition and conquest. I should receive the new poetry book I wrote in the mail on Monday. We shall see how it turned out. For what it's worth, I think it's my best one to date. A new record is finished and getting released in Europe through my Dutch distributor. But ten new songs on the state of my evolution and the world's existential affairs is all very uneventful anymore really. As I age, I continue to find my musings and creative endeavors revealed in a much smaller scope, though they are quite necessary for perspective.
What's more eventful is a good night's sleep, a fine meal, the occasional erection that starts in the heart ( rather than in the flesh) and the realization that one is loved and cared for by those magical beings dropped in one's lap by the gods and grace. . . Also. . .The realization that I cannot do physical work like I used to, massive inflation, the stock market tumbling and the invasion of Californians and Martians creating traffic jams in our once quiet little town. Also, the realization that the transfer of energy created by the act of writing somehow unclogs some invisible catch in the hemispheres below skin and bone-making one feel strangely whole. This act enables me to walk down the street in a different way, despite my constant denial of its great importance. Writing is an act of self love and self care I can scarcely do without. If I take the time to write a little, it reminds me of the amazing life I get to live in the shadow of my terrible disease of forgetting. It's like a tightrope walk at the moment's edge. Damned be to what I ever thought I wanted out of this life, as nothing I ever planned amounted to a hill of beans anyway We are not in control of much of anything really and the more deeply we wrap that realization around our quiet desperation the better. It's all about what we do in the meantime.
So last night I roasted a chicken. I thought I overdid it when I looked at the thermometer and it registered 170 instead of 165. In a panic I quickly popped it out of the oven and let it rest for the required 20 minutes. I then discovered a little pink in the juices and thought, “Shit, I undercooked it.” Was the thermometer in the wrong place? Were the poultry Gods not aligned?
With roast chicken one never knows.
It's so hard to get a chicken done perfectly. The breast meat cooks before the thigh and leg and the question of what temperature should one cook it at is always a dilemma. I did it at 425 degrees the whole way for a two and a half pound fryer and trussed the bird with some string I found in the garage next to the weed whacker. Anyway, it actually turned out perfect. The trick I feel is the slab of butter underneath the breast skin that keeps the breast meat moist and tender. I slathered the bird underneath the skin as well with olive olive oil and my homemade herbs de provence from the summer garden. I stuffed half a lemon and some garlic in the cavity and threw some carrots and an onion in the pan to roast alongside the bird. As I sliced through the crispy skin and tasted the breast, it had a hint of the lemon swimming in the tears of the roasted flesh. My fears of undercooking evaporated. The bird was perfect. I made a Cabernet pan gravy that offered the perfect amount of acid to offset the savory goodness of the chicken fat and mashed potatoes we prepared. I thought about popping a bottle of Cote d Rhone but in my better judgment I chose a good night's sleep over that sensual pleasure of the french countryside. A piece of chocolate with salted Caramel would have to do for dessert instead. Sweet dreams are better preferred.
Just taking the time to write this all down can somehow transform me from a curmudgeonly ungrounded beast to grateful saint. I can’t explain how that works. But all I know from experience is that..
It's the act that makes the difference --not the difference that makes the act. That's always a good thing to remember when pondering the desperation of days and roasting yard bird.
Bon appetito and te amo mon ami
FIN
