Our Lemons and Butchering a Chicken
I stuffed my hand into the carcass without hesitation. Look at this!
I held the tiny muscle between my fingers and proceeded to examine it. It's the heart. It's tiny. Look at the ventrical. It had been a healthy bird.
Roberto pulled Pepin's book from the shelf and found instructions on how to butcher a chicken. The how-to seemed crude, but very matter of fact.
The best course would be to jump right in. To not over-think things. Sound advice.
While I twisted joints and cut, Roberto reminded me to be careful and watch your fingers.
I listened. In the end we had a respectable load of butchered chicken parts on the counter and not a drop of blood. We were both pleased.
It only took five years.
I clipped two lemons from the tree and brought them inside. They had a job to do.
I coated the bottom of the stainless steel pan with olive oil and proceeded to coat the chicken—sliding the parts around and flipping them until they were glossy and ready to receive seasoning. Roberto added salt and pepper. Oregano? Yes, oregano AND crushed red pepper. A healthy dose of fresh squeezed lemon and a glug or two of white wine.
Into the oven.
I hovered at first, but them surrendered myself to The Glorious Pasta of Italy by Domenica Marchetti. A nice surrender.