Tag Archives: Marinade

Buttermilk roast chicken

I don’t cook meat all that often. It’s not my favorite thing to eat, and handling raw meat has always struck me as being more hassle than fun. So when I’m in the mood to do something meaty, I like simple, relatively hands-off preparations. Overnight marinades are nice for this kind of cooking–if you plan ahead for it, you can prep in five minutes and then forget about it for a good long while.

This particular recipe is inspired by the traditional pre-treatment for fried chicken: an overnight soak in a buttermilk bath. The acid and milk enzymes in the marinade help break down the chicken, making it silky and chin-dribblingly juicy. As it turns out, the chicken doesn’t have to be fried for a buttermilk marinade to work; you can roast the chicken parts instead, adjusting the proportions of sugar and salt in the marinade so that it functions more like a brine. The skin doesn’t get as crisp as it does on unmarinated roast chicken, but the tradeoff is rich, tooth-tender meat that’s so juicy it glistens. Any combination of chicken parts will do–use what you like best.

The base marinade is buttermilk, salt, honey, garlic cloves, and black pepper. Just as-is, it’s delicious; the honey adds a light sweet-savory note, and the garlic is there but not pungent. But you can customize it any which way you please. When I made this, my inspiration was medieval–I was brining drumsticks to take to Audrey’s Game of Thrones season finale party–so I added a touch of cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg. It sounds like an odd combination, but I encourage you to try it at least once–the combination of ancient sweet spices and honey might be the best flavor I’ve ever tasted on roast chicken.

Having tested this as potential party food, I can say it was a big hit–with one caveat. I wanted something meaty that people could pick up and eat greedily with their hands, like medieval lords. The drumsticks were definitely pick-up-able, but also so juicy that we had to either use plates or stand over the sink. This is not quite finger food–I’d call it plate-fork-and-finger food. Not that that’s a problem.

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Pigskins and puppies

So I don’t care about football. At all. I’ve been known to refer to a certain Sunday as “the Stupid Bowl.” The Puppy Bowl, on the other hand, is a delight in the wasteland of cable TV. My friends say that fuzzy baby animals are my kryptonite, and I can’t really argue. I have a tendency to dissolve into uncontrollable gibberish. It’s pretty disgusting.

The chicken wings I made for yesterday’s Super/Stupid/Puppy Bowl party, however? Not disgusting at all. (See what I did there?)

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