In My Mother's Kitchen: Roast Chicken / Chicken Broth
My mother grew up on a small farm in western New York. When I say farm, I don't mean something with gigantic monoculture fields like the ones that surrounded my hometown in North Dakota when I was growing up, including one field that literally backed up against our backyard until it was turned into a subdivision when I was in college. As I recall it (mostly through my mother), my grandma's farm was much smaller, almost more like a garden that had gotten completely and totally out of hand, and served to feed my mother's family, which is fairly impressive given that Mom was one of eight siblings, or more accurately twelve if you count the four first cousins who came to live with them. They all lived in a large house on the property.
One of the few stories that Mom consistently told about her life on the farm involved butchering the chickens. According to her, they would hang the chickens upside down from the clothesline so that when they cut off their heads gravity would drain the blood quickly. As an extra benefit, this kept the chickens from running around. Mom says the grass was always really green under that clothesline.
Clearly, someone with that kind of background is not going to have qualms about getting out a knife and carving the roast chicken when it came of the oven. Mom was also pretty frugal when I was a kid, and whole chickens are cheaper than buying the component pieces, which was probably one factor in why we had a whole roasted chicken at least once a month when I was growing up, and maybe more often. The other reason is that roasted chicken is both delicious and surprisingly easy. As my mother said the first time I tried to make one, "just follow the instructions on the packaging, you'll be fine." And so it was; it's hard to screw up a roasted chicken.
When we had roasted chicken, the first thing to go was the crispy skin, which is basically crispy fat. Delicious, delicious crispy fat. Mom had to parcel it out to make sure that one of us (usually me) wouldn't eat all of it before everyone else got a chance. Sometimes she'd call me to the kitchen to have a piece before dinner. As for the main course, I don't recall any of us having a particular preference for white or dark meat. The only real ironclad rule was that Dad got the back of the chicken if he wanted it, which was fine with the rest of us.
Dad would often crack chicken bones open to suck out the marrow. He'd do such a thorough job on those that they'd be thrown out, as they'd be basically worthless for the broth that inevitably followed a roasted chicken dinner. The ungnawed bones would be tossed in a pot of water and boiled. Then Mom would pick the meat off and discard the bones. The remainder was often turned into chicken soup. I don't specifically remember Mom using broth much for cooking, but she probably did that too.
In my own life, I've managed to be in long term relationships with two different women who don't like meat with bones, and who indeed had a strong preference for white meat in general, so I don't roast chickens very often at all. I use broth all the time when I cook, but usually I just buy it in cartons.
One of the few stories that Mom consistently told about her life on the farm involved butchering the chickens. According to her, they would hang the chickens upside down from the clothesline so that when they cut off their heads gravity would drain the blood quickly. As an extra benefit, this kept the chickens from running around. Mom says the grass was always really green under that clothesline.
Clearly, someone with that kind of background is not going to have qualms about getting out a knife and carving the roast chicken when it came of the oven. Mom was also pretty frugal when I was a kid, and whole chickens are cheaper than buying the component pieces, which was probably one factor in why we had a whole roasted chicken at least once a month when I was growing up, and maybe more often. The other reason is that roasted chicken is both delicious and surprisingly easy. As my mother said the first time I tried to make one, "just follow the instructions on the packaging, you'll be fine." And so it was; it's hard to screw up a roasted chicken.
When we had roasted chicken, the first thing to go was the crispy skin, which is basically crispy fat. Delicious, delicious crispy fat. Mom had to parcel it out to make sure that one of us (usually me) wouldn't eat all of it before everyone else got a chance. Sometimes she'd call me to the kitchen to have a piece before dinner. As for the main course, I don't recall any of us having a particular preference for white or dark meat. The only real ironclad rule was that Dad got the back of the chicken if he wanted it, which was fine with the rest of us.
Dad would often crack chicken bones open to suck out the marrow. He'd do such a thorough job on those that they'd be thrown out, as they'd be basically worthless for the broth that inevitably followed a roasted chicken dinner. The ungnawed bones would be tossed in a pot of water and boiled. Then Mom would pick the meat off and discard the bones. The remainder was often turned into chicken soup. I don't specifically remember Mom using broth much for cooking, but she probably did that too.
In my own life, I've managed to be in long term relationships with two different women who don't like meat with bones, and who indeed had a strong preference for white meat in general, so I don't roast chickens very often at all. I use broth all the time when I cook, but usually I just buy it in cartons.