I just cooked my first Sunday Roast. And yes, I am capitalizing both sunday and roast, because they deserve the distinction. A whole chicken is really fucking intimidating. So much could go wrong. But, I'm happy to report, that Murphy's Law did NOT prevail, and my first foray into culinary statelihood was a success! Juicy, delicious chicken meat. Perfectly roasted potatoes and carrots and onions. And a lovely home made gravy whipped up in the pan with some white wine and the delicious drippings.
Yes. I did all of that. And yes. My mother did help me. But the gravy-- that was all my doing. Anything involving wine and eventual food consumption-- I'm all over that shit. Like white on rice, baby, like white on rice.
Alright, I'll cease to recount my glorious kitchen experience, but I will say this. There is very little that is better on a freezing cold, New England day as it's pissing down rain, than a bottle of white wine, a roasted chicken and the time to putter around the kitchen making it all come to life. I feel a bit like a magician. Or Nigella Lawson. Or I guess me, grown out of my Annie's Mac limitations.
Personal growth man. You heard it here first.
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