How to make roast chicken

(As you might recall, in the spring of 2020, an angel appeared to me in a dream and presented me with access to a most holy and beautiful artifact: Mrs. Rogers’ Neighborhood, the cooking blog that Emily Rogers, my cisgender self from an alternate universe, writes. What might seem to be a cooking blog at first is, instead, a window into the multiverse; I have also checked in on the other Emily at Christmas, at Pride, and at Halloween. But doesn't she seem like she puts way too much pressure on herself to have an amazing Valentine's Day? Yeah, I thought so, too. Let's see what she's up to! It is important to note, as always, that photos do not survive the transmission between universes, but the alt text descriptions of those images is provided in place of them.)

Important note: If you are not up on your Emily Rogers #lore or just want to refresh your memory, there now exists a Rogersverse Wiki that keeps track of all major characters, plot points, and emotional moods. Wow!

Happy Valentine's Day, Emmy's Army! As I write this, David and his friends are in the other room, watching the St. Louis Rams and Los Angeles Bengals play in the Super Bowl. I left the room when the Rams went way, way up because I couldn't stand to see Jared Goff win his third consecutive Super Bowl. (No offense to Jared Goff. I just am so sick of him!) Also, I got so sick of Al Michaels saying, "The Super Bowl, presented by Pewlett-Hackard." You know?

So I started thinking about my wonderful husband and about one of the few stories I haven't told you about those months when we were falling hard for each other: the first time I cooked for him.

‎[Image: A blonde woman in her 20s leans in against a scruffy brown-haired man. Both are bundled up. Their cheeks are red. They're in Green Bay Packers gear, and they appear to be at a game at Lambeau. This photo is from some time ago, it would seem.]

But before I tell you that story, we need to gather everything necessary to make my famous roast chicken, with which I won David's heart. [I was already pretty into you before the chicken.] You are supposed to be watching the BIG GAME (brought to you by Pewlett-Hackard). [It's pretty boring. I'm gonna hang out in here with you.] Blogging, ladies and gentlemen!

The first and most important thing you're going to need is a nice big Belgian oven. Cast-iron ideally, but enamel Belgian ovens are great too. [Certain details about Emily's world are different from ours, and one such detail seems to be that the "Dutch oven" is instead a "Belgian oven." No news on if people also describe the thing where you fart under the bedsheets and then trap your lover with the stench as a Belgian oven. - ed.]

[Image: A bright blue enamel Belgian oven, photographed in perfect low-level lighting.]

Next, you're obviously going to need a chicken. Three to five pounds is ideal for this recipe.

[Image: Look at that chicken! It's sure a handsome one!]

And this recipe is easy, because you don't need too much beyond the chicken and the Belgian oven! Just get a whole mess of garlic and a whole mess of shallots. I usually go with 10 crushed garlic cloves and 10 shallots, but my good friend Cassidy tends to triple or even quadruple that. You want strong flavors! (My good friend Cassidy also thought that a "clove" of garlic was a full bulb. Can you imagine her cooking??) Grab some fresh poultry herbs, too. Whatever you have is fine! Sage, thyme, rosemary, parsley, basil... it's all good!

And then just olive oil, salt, and pepper, and you're set. See? Easy!

[Image: The ingredients, lined up next to the chicken. A man's hand, a wedding ring on it, rests just off-center in the frame.]

And it's been a while since we had a GIVE-AWAY, so I'm so fortunate that Big Sal of Big Sal's Shallot Sales sent me an entire Big Sal's Shallot Pallet to give away to one lucky reader! All you have to do is email emmysarmy99@gmail.com and tell us your favorite shallot story. Do you like to sneak a shallot before bed? Did your mom used to send one with you to school every day? We want to hear about it! Sal and I will select one of you to receive the shallot pallet! Yum! [I am truly at a loss here. Do shallots taste like apples in Emily's universe? Signs point to yes? - ed.]

[Image: The blonde woman gives thumbs up in a photo alongside a Paul Bunyan-looking man who is wearing a nametag that says BIG SAL. Out of focus in the background are seeming oceans of shallots.]

When I met David, I had been in two things you might have called "relationships." I had also had incredibly hard to bear crushes on a whole bunch of people of all sorts of genders. And I had also slept with a boy my senior year of high school.

When I met David, I was technically still with my college boyfriend, but he had moved to Nashville, and I was stubbornly staying in Chicago. Something had snapped between us, and then the door to the restaurant I worked at opened, and my future walked in. [You mean me? I walked in?] I'm being poetic, David.

We hit it off right away. I've told you that story too many times. But we made plans to grab coffee together, even though I kept saying it could only be as friends. I had a boyfriend after all! So we did a bunch of things as friends, including kissing, and then I was a friend who started staying over at his place every so often, and now we're friends who are married. Because he randomly walked into my restaurant, two entire human beings exist who would not have otherwise. It kind of breaks your brain if you think about it too much, right? (Before you ask, I broke up with the boyfriend somewhere between "friends who kissed" and "friends who slept over.")

I made a big show early on about how I just wanted to hang out with David to hang out with David, how there didn't have to be intentions, because I was 24 and insufferable. But I do think that loosened us up in ways I wouldn't have expected. He used to send me these long, long emails, and I would write back little quips while I was on break, and I think we started to see into each other's brains.

This was back when people were, like, "Maybe you can get to know the real person you're dating on the internet first???" which is maybe true, so far as it goes. But I think there's something magic about knowing the spark is there and then discovering it exists on multiple levels. I thought he was hot; I also thought he had a lot of opinions about Survivor that were objectively incorrect. I loved arguing with him, which was the first time I could have said that about anybody I'd dated. It's how I should have known we would last.

The night I cooked for him, David got to my place early. I was embarrassed by it. I shared it with my roommate Soni, and while she was gone for the weekend, I still imagined him seeing how small it was for two adult women to be sharing. There I was in the kitchen, cutting the chicken up into pieces, and I felt him over by the windows, looking over our bookshelves. I looked back at him, and sweat had painted a narrow strip along the back of his shirt. What he wore was way too warm for Chicago summer, but he always wore long-sleeved shirts, because he thought his arms looked too pale or something. The window air conditioner brrrred, and he picked up my copy of Blankets and smiled. "This is good," he said, and I said, "I know."

I almost cut my thumb off, because I could feel him wandering around, taking my apartment in. I was sure he was judging me and sure he wasn't judging me all at the same time. It was wild!

Anyway: That's your first step. You have to cut up the chicken. If you don't know how to carve a chicken, you can check out my video on how to do it, but it's honestly pretty easy. The secret: Get some good kitchen shears to slice through the back and breast bones! You'll be glad you did!

[Image: That chicken you saw earlier? Now it's in eight parts, baby!]

Next, grab yourself an enormous bowl and drop the chicken pieces in there. I need to warn you right now: This recipe uses a lot of olive oil. It's for a good reason, though! And, hey, if lots of olive oil is what it takes to win the love of your life, use lots of olive oil!

So! Chicken in bowl. Sprinkle salt everywhere. Grind pepper everywhere. Pour two tablespoons of olive oil over everything, then toss with tongs until everything is evenly coated. Yum! [Oily!]

(This is G's favorite part.)

[Image: A young girl in a Wonder Woman T-shirt makes a delighted face while touching oil-covered raw chicken. We can only hope she later washed her hands to get rid of the salmonella.]

The next step: EVEN MORE OIL! I told you we were going to use SO MUCH OIL, Emmy's Army. But did you listen? No!

[Image: The blonde woman glugs olive oil into the Belgian oven as the man wearing the wedding ring and the Wonder Woman girl look on.]

In the photo, I'm just eyeballing it, which is maybe not the smartest idea. If you don't like to live dangerously, you just need a half-cup of olive oil. Anyway, dump that in the Belgian oven, then put your oily chicken pieces down into the smooth, lovely puddle of oil sitting there. Oil! [I can't believe how excited you are about this. Is this a bit?] What do you think, David? Do you think it's a bit? [I'm going to go watch the game some more.]

Okay all your shallots and garlic cloves? Cut 'em in half or crush 'em or whatever is going to get their flavors rolling along. You don't need to peel the garlic either, but if you wanted to, you know my famous method: Crush the clove with the broad side of a knife, and the skin will pop right off.

[Image: The woman crushes garlic cloves as the Wonder Woman girl looks at the camera.]

Pop your shallots and garlic in the Belgian oven on top of the chicken, then add whatever fresh herbs you feel like or have on hand. (Dried herbs work, too, but we don't want the chicken to get covered in little herb pieces, you know? So if you're using dried herbs, sprinkle those over the shallots as much as possible.) Stick a meat thermometer in the thickest part of the breast, and--

DID YOU SET THE OVEN FOR 375 FAHRENHEIT? You didn't, did you? Because you were listening to me, and I always forget about the "set the oven to 375" part. Anyway, make sure you travel back in time and preheat the oven before you do anything else, or you're going to end up waiting for a bit here!

(As always with oven temps, you have some flexibility here. If you want a shorter cook, you could bump up all the way to 450, but I've found this dries my chicken out, which leads to suboptimal results, including on the night I first cooked for David.)

[Image: An oven properly set to 375 degrees Fahrenheit.]

375 Fahrenheit is, like, 190 Celsius? I'm trying, I swear. I know President Williamson's next big initiative is making us all learn Celsius, but I'm really struggling with it. Give me a break, Marianne!

Anyway, once your oven is all set, stick your thermometer in the breast, then set it to 160 and wait! If you don't have a thermometer, just use the trusty method of waiting until the juices run clear, and start checking around an hour and 10 minutes. My one warning with this recipe is that it goes from perfect and juicy to overcooked like that (imagine me snapping my fingers), so just keep an eye on things.

[Image: A lush city park in summer. Judging from the fashion, this photo was taken in the mid-2000s. Dogs run in the foreground.]

Once I had the chicken in the oven that night, I realized my mistake: It was hot as balls, and my not-yet-declared-but-obviously-he-was-my boyfriend was in a long-sleeve shirt, and I was overheated from being in the kitchen. Just a catastrophe all around. I apologized 50 times, because that was what my whole life had taught me to do when I so much as mildly inconvenienced someone (but especially a man). And David said, "I got to know you better. It was worth it."

Emmy's Army, I assumed that was a bit. He was just pretending to have had a nice time hanging out in my too-hot apartment because we were just in the early stages of having lots of sex. [You're aware M sometimes reads this blog, right?] David, I would think her existence would have clued her in to all of the above. Geez.

So I said, "Let's go to the park," and he said that sounded like a great idea.

(Emmy's Army, if you just put a chicken in the oven, DO NOT GO TO THE PARK WITHOUT SOMEONE IN YOUR HOUSE TO KEEP AN EYE ON IT FOR YOU, EVEN IF IT WILL MAKE A REALLY ROMANTIC STORY FOR LATER. There's a lot of oil involved! You don't want to start a fire. I cannot stress enough that in this story, I am 24. I was not smart when I was 24 and around a boy I had it bad for.)

Soni and I lived a few blocks north of Wrigley Field, and there was a game that night (Cubs trounced the Phillies). So we walked further north to avoid the scene down there. We ended up skirting the edges of Challenger Park, and the air had the feeling of a storm about to happen. There's this little dog park at the very edge of Challenger, and we found ourselves there. This little mutt with one eye ran right up to us and dropped a tennis ball at David's feet. (If I hadn't known any better, I would have assumed David had paid the dog off so he could show off.) David picked up the ball and skimmed it through the air out into the middle of the dark field, and as the dog ran after it, the lights in the park shimmered on, one by one, like he had conjured them into being. He smiled over at me, and I could tell he was both a little excited and a little embarrassed. "I've never had a dog," he said, "but I love to play fetch." He said this like he was confessing a terrible secret.

And I realized the guy back in the apartment who was just so happy to have gotten to know me better, even if we were both sweating all through it? That was who he was. It wasn't a bit. He was the person he pretended to be.

That was the first time I saw him.

I mean, obviously, I had seen him before. Lots of times. But I have this idea about how we come to see people we love. Go with me here, Emmy's Army.

So obviously when I would first get together with someone, I would think about them constantly. But I was never thinking about them as they were, you know? I was thinking about them as I hoped they would be or as I feared they might be. The first few times I met David, I would imagine him going home to his apartment and sitting down to watch Survivor and dreaming of me. Or I would fear that he only thought about me when I was in his field of vision.

But this is a trick you play on yourself. You're not imagining the person as they are; you're imagining them as an extension of you. You are assuming that when they leave your field of vision, they cease to exist a little bit. Or there's the terrible inverse, which is what I had with Franz Ferdinand (NOT HIS REAL NAME) the guy I was dating when I met David: I assumed I ceased to exist when Franz wasn't around. He would go out with his friends and leave me in our apartment, and I wouldn't be sure what to do with myself. I had poured myself into his life and dreams to such a degree that I resembled an off-brand replica of them.

When you truly see someone is when you come to realize that they continue to exist as themselves once they're out of your field of vision. I looked at David that night, this guy who could conjure dogs out of nothingness and turn night into day, this guy who had never had a dog but loved to play fetch, this guy who thought who he was was a secret, and I understood that when we said goodbye that night (or, okay, M, cover your eyes, Monday morning when he had to go to work), he would still be that guy. I could be whole cities away from him and still feel him moving around, because he had somehow become a part of me. And I knew he would be for as long as I wanted him to.

My first boyfriend, Gavrilo Princip (NOT HIS REAL NAME), was the son of the pastor at our church. From the second we could both walk and talk, people assumed we were going to be together, so when we got to high school, we hated to disappoint them. He used to have me over to his house, and he would play Warcraft II on the computer in the family living room while I watched. The map he played on would start dark and unfamiliar, and then slowly, he would uncover its secrets as his little guys wandered around and opened up the shadows. (He refused to play as the orcs, as he believed they were demonic.)

The thing was Gavrilo played the game so many times that he knew all of the maps. He knew where the resources were. He knew where the enemies would be placed. It was just a matter of him knowing exactly how to approach the problem. Watching him play was interesting. It's always fun to see someone who really knows what they're doing do their thing. But it also felt a little like my relationship with him. I thought there was going to be something new and different hiding in the dark, but I had memorized every level from the moment I first met him. I got bored, and I slept with the school bad boy, and my mom caught us together, and that's a story for another time. Gavrilo and I still went to prom, because what else were we going to do?

[Image: A gawky but maybe pretty blonde teenage girl stands right in front of a tall, lanky teen boy, whose face has been covered by the sunglasses emoji.]

I later realized the reason for Gavrilo's rigidity was because he had made himself that rigid. He couldn't risk not knowing what was in the dark, because that was when bad things might happen with his parents, who were real pieces of work. He turned out okay. When he went to college, he basically set his life on fire, and the last I heard, he was living on a commune in the middle of nowhere Oregon. Good for him, unless it's one of those communes that is, like, blowing up post offices or something. (I think I would have heard about it if it was.)

I am extending this metaphor way, way too far, but the map slowly revealing itself was what I thought of as that dog ran through the middle of the park and the lights flared up around it. The dog's owner ran up and said, "I'm so sorry. She thinks everybody's a friend," and I almost pointed to David and said, "So does he," but I stopped myself, because the David that joke was about wasn't the David I was (I suddenly realized in that moment) in love with. He was the David I thought I wanted, a social chatterbox who would go to a billion parties with me. But that David wouldn't have made friends with a one-eyed dog in the middle of a warm Chicago night.

"She's a lovely dog," David said, and the owner smiled and ran off after her.

As we walked back to my apartment, holding hands, I could hear the crowd at Wrigley cheer in excitement at something (probably a home run), and I turned to look at him, and I said, "I think I'm going to start calling you my boyfriend," and he said that sounded okay, so long as he could call me his girlfriend. [I already was. Sorry. I had yet to realize your penchant for declaring everything with Capital Letters. I got there eventually.]

When we got back to the apartment, the chicken was jussssst this side of too-well-done, but the nice thing about this recipe is that the flavor is so intense that even if the chicken gets dried out, it'll taste great. So if you mess this recipe up, you probably haven't messed it up. It takes a lot to ruin something that works, you know?

Gavrilo had this trick he'd use in his game, where he would station various little guys at certain points on the map, so he could see the enemies' movements before they arrived in his territory. They were these little points of light in the dark, and I think maybe that's what it means to love somebody. Even when they're not with you, you can sort of feel them out there in the dark, can maybe even see the things they're seeing. We only get so many people like that in our lives, but sometimes, I close my eyes and feel them spreading out from me in a web -- Bryan up on the remote and rocky coast and Beth in her Eagle Rock bungalow and Cassidy cutting up an apple and my kids one floor above me and David in the other room with his friends and on and on and on. It's only imagination, but it also isn't.

Love isn't knowing someone so well that you know everything they think and feel and do. Love isn't holding someone pinned in a spotlight so they cannot move without you knowing about it. Love isn't a prison, no matter how much the world tries to tell you it is.

Love is knowing someone so well that you can still see them even when they're not in front of you. Love is learning to take joy in the exploration of who they are, in the way that the map of themselves blossoms out the longer you go searching. And love is knowing someone so well that you understand all the pieces of them that will never be yours and love them all the more for that.

Or maybe love is just really fucking great roast chicken. Happy Valentine's Day, Emmy's Army. I'll see you again next week to talk about the new trick I've found for THE BEST CHICKEN STOCK EVER??

[Image: The blonde woman, the man with the wedding ring, and two girls sit around a table bedecked with a beautiful roast chicken. The woman holds her arm out to capture the selfie, and the lights of the room capture everything in it, but beyond them, the darkness.]

Programming note: I hope you enjoyed checking in with Emily Rogers again. I so love writing these pieces, and I need you to know that this roast chicken recipe legitimately did change my life, and you should try it yourself. (Also: EmRog is wrong. 400 Fahrenheit is the best temp for this recipe!)

I've been really going through it, which is why the schedule's a little off lately. Thanks to those of you who reached out. We'll be running a Cowboy Bebop review on Friday and then again on Monday, and hopefully, that will get us back on track!

This week's reading music: "Watershed" by Anais Mitchell (I wrote most of this newsletter to this song, aw)

Episodes is published twice per week. Mondays alternate between a free edition on various topics and a subscriber-supported edition where I recap TV shows of interest. Fridays offer pop culture thoughts from freelance writers. The Friday edition and the biweekly recaps are only available to subscribers. Suggest topics for future installments via email or on Twitter. Read more of my work at Vox.