Sunday Roast Chicken

As I have discussed here before, I am a man of habits, practices, and repetition. I am comfortable in the known and dependable. This is likely why I am the primary cook in our household, although now that we’re down to just the two of us, the competition is not heated.

I don’t remember Sunday dinner being anything special in my house growing up, but then again, if you asked my siblings, I don’t remember much of anything that went on in my house growing up. I have subcontracted childhood memories out to my brother Sean, who retains them for me, vividly. The occasion of my father’s death and two seven-hour car rides re-acquainted me with not only his amazing memory, but many instances of my childhood misbehavior.

In this house, where I am chef, I have always tried to make Sunday dinner something special, to correspond with the Rockwell painting of a life that exists in my mind. For the longest time, I made rack of lamb on Sundays. BJ’s wholesale sells a fine rack, and when available I stock up. When the girls lived here (and were meat-eaters), we had two among us, but when they turned to the dark-side of their plant-based existences, one became sufficient.

This year, I have cut back somewhat on my red-meat and taken a cue from the girls in eating a lot more stuff that isn’t meat. I’ve not gone over the bend mind you, but for a good long time I averaged two steaks and a rack of lamb each week, so working more chicken, fish, etc into the mix seems kosher. In pursuit of this new vibe, I cut back on the rack of lamb to a once every three weeks or so thing, and brought a Sunday Roast Chicken into the mix. Now—I love chicken. And a couple of years ago, I bought a Dutch Oven specifically to cook chicken in. But it was only after I discovered the delights of the butcher counter at our local Amish Market—and the tasty roasters featured there—that I made the big switch.

Sunday’s Dinner Guest

The other thing is that I’ve slowly influenced my inamorata into eating Sunday dinner at 4PM, which is a wholly civilized time of day to eat a goodly repast, and it fits well in my desire to eat twice a day, mid morning and late afternoon. On Sundays though, I generally don’t eat until the chicken is ready, so there’s a little “fasting” worked into the rotation.

The highlight of the recipe is the bed of vegetables I cook the chicken on. I cut up little red potatoes, onions, carrots, garlic, maybe a shallot, a bit of butternut squash, and often sweet potatoes (Cat got some blueish sweet potatoes she saw long-lived Okinawans eating on a TV shoe that are awfully tasty) and throw in cauliflower and maybe a few cherry tomatoes. I add chicken seasoning and some chicken stock, and after 90 minutes or so, I get a gorgeous bird and a delicious meatless ragout of veggies that makes for superb left-over eating later in the week.

Best of all though, is that dinner is over and cleaned up by 6PM.

March and April Weather

Here is what the upcoming weather for my corner of the world looks like:

I really need to find what region of the world has the best March/April weather and decamp there annually, because I hate this with the heat of ten-thousand suns. Yes, I understand this happens every year and that my complaining about it is irrational (or so says the Lady of the Manor). And yes, May and June are extraordinarily wonderful here, perhaps as a result of the dog-poop that is March and April. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

American Fiction

Jeffrey Wright in “American Fiction”

Hollywood and film-making are not my jam. I like movies as much as the next guy, but I don’t get all caught up in all the hullaballoo about “cinema” and “auteur” directors, as I kind of look at those who do as pretentious toffs, which is rich coming from someone others consider a pretentious toff. I don’t watch the Oscars, and I haven’t had a dog in the fight since The Lord of the Rings swept the field.

This year however, was a little different, in that as I perused the nominees, I saw that Jeffrey Wright had been nominated. I think I first saw Wright in the two Bond movies he did (both of which were wonderful) in the 00’s, where he plays Bond’s CIA connection—perfectly. He pops up in things now and then, and everything I’ve seen him in I’ve liked. After I saw that he was nominated, I further saw that it was in a movie that I hadn’t heard of—not at all out of the ordinary, but I figured that if this guy I really like to watch has earned an Oscar nomination, I might want to track it down.

And then I started to read the reviews. When I did, I saw that there was a story to this movie that I had to see. Here is a summary I pulled off the Google machine:

Monk is a frustrated novelist who's fed up with the establishment that profits from Black entertainment that relies on tired and offensive tropes. To prove his point, he uses a pen name to write an outlandish Black book of his own, a book that propels him to the heart of hypocrisy and the madness he claims to disdain.

As I read the reviews—I saw something else, something that REALLY played to my priors (I am human, after all), and that was the degree to which reviewers cited the white, liberal, characters representing the intelligentsia, and their clownish virtue signaling—all to Wright’s frustration and dismay.

I watched it last night—and man, what a great movie.

This is a REALLY smart movie, one that I am a little surprised got made. I have a Navy friend whose brother produced the movie, so maybe I’ll be able to suss out how hard it was. But white, liberal, America does not look good in this movie, and I’m really okay with that.

I liked “Oppenheimer”. I really liked “Barbie”. But I LOVED this movie.

UVA Basketball

I write this on the Morning of Selection Sunday, two days after staying up late to watch UVA’s epic fold (well, not really epic, we’ve seen it before) against a seriously ready NC State team. We UVA fans have become spoiled in the Tony Bennett era, and the 2019 National Championship was the icing on the cake of a five year buildup to the top.

But the last five years have been disappointments, and Tony Bennett’s coaching aura is rightly dinged. There is no excuse other than coaching for a team that cannot shoot free-throws (and it KILLED UVA the other night), and the team’s inept management of “fouls to give” late. Additionally, the team’s offense as been atrocious this year, with UVA getting run out of the gym in seven of their losses.

8 hours from now we’ll know if UVA makes it into the field for the Big Dance. I do not think they will, and if they don’t, I think no injustice has occurred (irrespective of who DOES make it in). Their exclusion will open up a great deal of time in my schedule over the next two weeks, as my interest in the rest of the field is low and my disappointment in my own team is high. My apologies to regular readers who have participated in my Conservative Wahoo Pool in the past, but I have discontinued this practice.

UPDATE: Well, they are in. Didn’t think they would be. Didn’t think they should be. But they are. So on to Dayton!

I’ve included my bracket so you can make fun of it. A near-death experience wakes Virginia up to set up a 2019 rematch in the Round of 8 with Purdue.