Older chickens make better soup
Friday night, we started at The Hairy Canary. Then we went to the pub and finally to the Wild Geese. At 10 pm, the Wild Geese didn't even have enough people in to front the bar in one layer. It was dead. Assuming that since it was Friday, people were still eating, taking their time, getting their outfits just right or taking a 'disco nap' so they can stay up until the wee hours of the morning.
Peter, Mr. Mumbly, from the Hairy followed us to The Pub. Well, he followed Lara. Of course. But there was little to no spark that evening - even if I did play pool very well. By 10:30 I was well and truly tuckered out. Feeling a bit older than the crowd. Well, for good reason.
I went home and walked Bunny Dog, ate a frozen pizza to soak up the wine and went to bed.
Saturday woke me and Bunny Dog at 9:25 hurray! It's been ages since we slept that late! And Bunny Dog (BD) wasn't even whining to go out so we could lie in a bit. BD had this lazy attitude about him. He was upside down with his paws in the air yawning. Every once in a while he would drift off and his paws would tremble and shake. He would let out a low yowl and grr. Chasing Rabbits again in his sleep. Dreaming of Normandy and the vast dunes in front of the beach house. His domain, his fantasy, his dream. Miles of grassy, hilly, knobbly rabbit-infested dunes to fly through, sail over, speed, agility, determination. It's all in the chase, he's never even been close.
Finally up and out. Hardware store. More light bulbs. Grocery, more everything. And the butcher shop. A chicken. I got it in my head that I had to make chicken soup.
Chicken soup to fill the house with that homey, unmistakable aroma of chicken and celery and carrots. Soup to banish the last vestiges of the flu. Warm on a cold day. I got a huge tree-like bunch of celery, beautiful sweet carrots and big fresh yellow onions from the veg grocer down the street. I stopped in to my favourite butcher shop to get a chicken. They always give BD a handful of Prepare Americaine - hamburger meat. So he acts all cute and sweet and dances on his back legs to tease out ever larger lumps of burger meat. It works.
Oddly, I found myself singing 'Chicken in a pot, I've got a chicken in a pot' to no particular person or to no particular tune. Cooking puts me in such a great mood. I cooked it in my Le Creuset 7-quart blue braising pot. My favourite possession. After a couple of hours, I removed the chicken and veg to taste my lovely chicken stock. But it was boring, bland, flat and definitely not representative of the effort spent in making it.
I know! I'll call Mom. She'll know what happened. She listened intently as I took her step-by-step through the process and waited for an answer as to why my chicken soup was not so impressive. Her conclusion. The chicken was too young. 'Older chickens make better soup'.
There you have it. No wonder I can't make better soup :-))
posted by Brussels Confidential @ 9:04 AM
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