Fried Chicken

For some reason, standing looking at bits of chicken in the store, I chose a baby chicken. Not pieces. I had a jonesing for fried chicken, brought on annually by the lore of the 4th of July. I also had buttermilk at home. Unusual, but serendipitous. And a vague memory of reading, years ago, a Thanksgiving story about a Southern cook deep-frying an entire turkey.

My problem with fried things is that I miss herbs. There are no herbs in fried things. So I stripped a handful of my terrace's thyme flowers into two cups of buttermilk, chopped a tablespoonful of rosemary, and added some sage and tarragon too. Inside the small bird I stuffed some more thyme, rosemary, and swirl of lemon zest with salt. The buttermilk got salted and peppered liberally.

A couple of hours later I drained the chicken and rolled it thoroughly in salted flour. I had heated up more canola oil than would seem right, since I never cook with the stuff - it would reach halfway up the bird.

And into the hot oil it went. I turned the heat down a little so that the bubbles kept going steadily without seeming frenzied. The meat needs to cook inside without the skin burning. After 15 minutes I turned it over.

Another 15 minutes, it seemed done - I poked it with a skewer and the juices came out clear. I drained it on kitchen paper, carved it - it fell apart; and ate it with a gremolata of chopped parsley, finely grated lime zest and salt.

Quite freakin' delicious.