The best thought was that I need to write more about the world, and less about me. (But if I write it as I see it, aren’t I still writing about me?) Either way, I need to write, so you see the conundrum. When I’m not writing, I am not at my best. But I find myself a rather dull subject after a while. I’m working on it.

But anyway, I’ll share some opinions. I love leeks, and I love my drive to school: this is Beaver Meadow Road. You see how beautiful it is–and how one might want to spend 1,000 words describing it. But I won’t.

I won’t spend 1,000 words on this, either. But it’s just a few feet up. Can you imagine?

Nor will I spend so much on leeks. But I will say this: you will never be dissatisfied if you keep a few leeks and a carton of eggs on hand. And some parsley, garlic and parmesan. This works well on the days (weeks) when you can’t drive to the grocery store. I had a day like that recently and was grateful for my leeks. They are better to eat than canned beans. But I must say, the leeks pictured came from a market in the fall… I’ve eaten many since and would’t advise storing them for quite that long.

I love the circles that leeks make when you cut them, and the colors fading from dark green to pale white. I love the way they get brown in a pan and the way they smell with butter. They go soft and sweet, and are more delicate than their onion cousins.

Leek Frittata

2 leeks, sliced thinly cross-wise and well rinsed (whites and light greens only, please!)

1 T butter

6 eggs

White wine (1/2 c, maybe)

1/2 c grated parmesan cheese or parrano, sliced thin

2 T chopped parsley

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Preheat oven to 350.

Wash them leeks! Really. You’ll ruin the whole thing if there’s sand in a leek, and leeks love to be sandy.

Heat your butter until brown and delicious-smelling, then saute leeks until beautifully golden (this should take time–do it slowly).

Add some white wine if you can and saute some more.

In a separate bowl, beat your eggs with salt and pepper. Add parsley.

If you prefer, you can put the cheese in now, or gently lay it over the eggs before baking.

Place leeks in a a round, oven-proof dish big enough for this sort of thing. (You can also use your skillet.)

Pour eggs over leeks and cover with cheese.

Bake about 20 minutes, though you may need more.

I usually eat this with some toast or little baked potatoes and a green salad. (And I like the dressing from this salad.)

I am enamored with raw zucchini. I love the stuff, why hide it? Some people bake it into bread, (which is one of my favorite things to eat, no doubt) some into cookies. I haven’t seen a zucchini ice cream, but I have seen it crystalized as a cake topper. If you are sick of summer squash, there are limitless ways of serving it secretly… tucking it neatly into something else and feeding it to folks without saying so. Or candying it and brandishing it as ribbons and bows on a frosting-wrapped cake.

I find that the secret to eating it unabashedly uncooked is slicing it thin. If you get it with a mandoline, or cut it into tiny matchsticks, zucchini absorbs the flavor of what you put with it and isn’t overpowering. In my case, it most often becomes a delightfully crunchy vehicle for Parrano cheese and toasted pine nuts. If you haven’t tried Parrano cheese, brace yourself: it is the slickest baby Parmesan and Gouda could have—smooth, sweet, salty, slightly sharp. Yes, it really is all of those things.

This can be served with lettuce or without, although I find that a bed of greens acts as a nice cradle for drippy vinaigrette. Lettuce helps in preventing a plate from puddle-ing up. I could see this sliced zucchini served on top of cold quinoa or wild rice, in which case the leaves would be unnecessary.

Also- somewhere during my summer squash romance, Christopher and I packed up our entire house and moved it from Texas to Vermont. (The zucchini is equally good in both places, although I feel like I’ve cheated the seasons: summer squash, tomatoes, corn and other hot-weather wonders started appearing in May down south, while they’re just cresting here.) This picture was taken as one of our last lonestar meals, and the camera is at large, so please use your imagination to picture how beautiful this salad can be. Now that I’m settled, there’s more zucchini to come.

Raw Zucchini Salad with Parrano and Toasted Pine Nuts

Serves 2 as a generous appetizer, 4 as a side-dish

For the Dressing

Combine 2 teaspoons of dijon mustard with 6 tablespoons of champagne or white vinegar.

Add 2 teaspoons of honey, a dash of salt and a crack of pepper.

Add 1 tablespoon of finely chopped parsley.

Stir to combine.

Slowly, drizzle in ¾ c of olive oil until emulsified.

Set aside. (You will likely have enough for tomorrow.)

For the Zucchini

Slice 1 zucchini and 1 summer squash into think strips, preferably with a mandoline. Cut into 3” pieces.

In a medium bowl, pour enough dressing over the zucchini to coat.

Let this marinate in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes.

Just before serving, thinly slice ½ c Parrano cheese and toast ½ c pine nuts.

If using lettuce, coat greens lightly in dressing in your serving bowl.

In their bowl, toss zucchini and summer squash with cheese.

Place zucchini in a serving dish, (possibly over greens) and garnish with toasted pine nuts.

I am a big fan of blending my gazpacho, although I also like it chopped. It depends on the goal: if avocado and lots of herbs or a green pepper are part of the plan, then pureeing is not the strategy, except when I dine alone. I don’t mind eating brownish soup. (Shhh.)

But tonight I had mostly red in my kitchen, and a puree was ideal. (Although I didn’t have any strawberries or cantaloupe on hand, I would likely have added some for the sweetness–a little fruit in gazpacho is really subtle and delicious.) When I’m making a blended batch, I reserve some of the chopped vegetables for  texture, and usually add some other garnish–sometimes shrimp, crab or avocado. I’ve never considered a floating crostini…that would feel too fussy for this kind of edible spontaneity.

Tonight I had some sweet, jumbo lump crab, to which no mollusk or crustacean compares.

**Note: this soup is best if it has time to sit: I recommend making it in the afternoon (or a day before) and blending once more just before adding garnishes and serving.

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Today’s Gazpacho

Generously serves 2

3  medium tomatoes, cored and rough chopped

1 large, red pepper, cubed

1 medium, yellow pepper, cubed

1/2 red onion, diced

1 large cucumber, peeled, seeded and cubed

1 jalepeño pepper, diced (optional)

Juice of 1 lemon

Generous bunch of fresh basil

Olive oil, s & p

1/2 c jumbo lump crab

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Blend the vegetables, reserving about 1/2 cup to mix into the puree just before serving.

Add jalepeño in parts, to taste.

Add a few leaves of basil, and more if you’re happy with the taste and color.

Drizzle olive oil into the puree, and add lemon, salt and pepper to taste.

Just before serving, chiffonade remaining basil and garnish bowls with chopped veggies and jumbo lump crab.

Thank you, citrus, for gleaming through these gray winter months. I’ve got an appointment to have my teeth cleaned soon, and I’m sure my dentist will admonish me for my very much eroded enamel, but what can I say? A grapefruit a day keeps the blues away. It certainly has for me. Scurvy will wreak no havoc on this body—I’ve eaten at least two citrus fruits each day since Christmas, without fail. And when I’m working my way through a box of Clementines, that number jumps to at least four.

I love the way my hands smell after a meal punctuated by citrus: I feel instantly awake, clean, refreshed. Mostly I eat it plain, peeled and pulled apart, segment by segment. But sometimes, when I’m in the mood to light candles, buy flowers and treat myself right, I’ll prepare myself a proper platter, presented with care and perhaps a few herbs.

This dish was inspired once again by Mark Bittman, who I am coming to like, more and more, despite the absence of a carrot cake recipe in his tome, “How to Cook EVERYTHING.” (I’m sorry Mark, but a carrot cake is definitely SOMETHING. Note to self: Never write a cookbook that sets such high expectations.)  He wrote about a citrus salad a few weeks ago in the Times, and I thought it was a nice idea: a good start to a lunch that might include some fine Greek yogurt drizzled with honey and cinnamon—which is often how I take my grapefruit, actually. It also makes a fine dessert, finished with a hunk of gingered dark chocolate. But then again, doesn’t everything end well with gingered dark chocolate?

On a recent Saturday afternoon after the farmer’s market, I decided to try my own rendition of Bittman’s sweet salad, putting to use some beautiful Texas-grown grapefruits and oranges. I had dill lying about and some walnuts and honey, so I candied the nuts and sprinkled some fine sprigs across the top of the sliced salad for garnish. A bit of green really adds to the look and the sweet, salty crunch of the walnuts is well worth the effort it takes to dress them up a little.

There is something to be said for eating with the eyes: other than the occasional grapefruit and avocado salad, I’ve rarely taken the time ‘present’ a grapefruit to myself, but oh did its careful slices look lovely when pricked with the tines of a silver fork. The little ritual made my Saturday afternoon something special: farm-to-table at its prettiest and most diginified. Get it while winter lasts…

Citrus Salad with Candied Walnuts and Dill

Serves 1

1 grapefruit
1 orange (try this with clementines, blood oranges or tangerines, also)
¼ c chopped walnuts (hazelnuts could be good…)
2 T honey, divided
2 T olive oil, divided
1 t white or red wine vinegar
½ tsp salt
dill for garnish (mint would work well also)

Prepare the dressing:

Mix honey and vinegar in a small bowl. Whisk in olive oil in a slow stream, until emulsified. Set aside.

Prepare the walnuts:

Place 1 T olive oil and 1 T honey in a sauté pan until hot.

Add walnuts and stir to coat.

Cook until brown, (this happens quickly) then remove from heat and set aside.

Prepare the salad:

Gently slice the rinds from the citrus fruits, and carefully slice into ¼” segments.

Arrange on a plate and drizzle with dressing.

Sprinkle with herbs and nuts and serve immediately.

The first time my mother made it this year (it’s most satisfying in the cold), Christopher and I were en route from a late flight for Thanksgiving. We debated grabbing something from the new–very culinary–Kennedy Jet Blue terminal, but were convinced to hold off. When we finally arrived at home, it was 10:30 and we were numb with hunger. I didn’t tell Christopher what was waiting: he doesn’t like sweet vegetables and I was sure he’d envision some purée of maple syrup, apples and cinnamon, which seem to be prominent ingredients in most squash soups. Fortunately, the deep curry and herbs disguise the sugar and starch typical of so many root vegetables. This soup is subtly spiced, rich from a ham-hock and fit for those with a hankering for savory food. In fact, if it weren’t so orange, you might not even recognize its main ingredient.

On another note, Christopher and I are going to Paris tomorrow. Last night I started reading Paris Was Ours and woke myself up with excitement at 3:30am. Fortunately, I had a generous nap, but I haven’t been so excited for a trip in as long as I can remember. I will be heading to E. Dehillerin, on the recommendation of Christopher’s grandmother. Her suggestion reminded me of a quote I recently read  by Florence King: “A house without a grandmother is like an egg without salt.” I can’t wait to eat hardboiled eggs in little french cups with little french spoons. Copper pots aren’t bad either… neither are croissantes, the Musée d’Orsay, Shakespeare and Company or the smell of wooden cathedral pews, smoothed through years of use.

Curried Squash Soup

Adapted (by memory) from Green on Greens

1 medium-sized butter nut squash, cubed

2 T butter

5 scallions, thinly sliced

1 green pepper, diced

1 red pepper, diced

2-3 garlic cloves, chopped (depending on their size and your taste)

1 ham-hock (1/4 lb of salt pork could also work–add it at the beginning with less butter)

2 qts chicken broth

1/2 c chopped basil

1/4 c chopped parsley

–

Melt the butter in a large, heavy-bottomed skillet until brown and bubbling.

Add the scallions and peppers and sauté until soft, about 7 minutes.

Add garlic and squash and sauté a few minutes more, just until garlic begins to brown.

Add chicken stock and ham hock and bring to a boil.

Lower the heat and cook until squash softens, 45 minutes.

Add herbs and cook another 5 minutes.

Blends, or pass through a food mill, being careful not to cause any explosions.

Serve with a small spoonful of crème fraîche or additional herbs.

This soup is nothing to mess with. It is loaded with vitamins, antioxidants, immune-enhancers and most importantly, tons of flavor. If I were a germ, I’d scoot right out of my host body and prey upon someone else. So make sure your friends have batches on hand.

This particular carrot ginger soup came to me from the pages of Candle Café Cookbook, one of my favorite vegetarian cooking resources from one of my favorite vegetarian eating resources, the Candle Café in New York. I used to live around the corner and went there whenever I felt the urged to be elixed.

Have you ever felt so energized by a meal that it literally feels as though all of the nutrition you just ate went straight into your bloodstream? That is how I feel when I eat a great, vegetarian meal. That is how I feel when I eat at Candle Café… and now, that I how I feel when I make their recipes at home.

Imagine my excitement when I found that I could buy the Candle Café cookbook and get that fix whenever I pleased? Elated, that’s how… as though some wonderful adrenal force was coursing through my veins. Some people take drugs; I take carrot soup.

I could go on and on about the recipes in that cookbook. Unlike so many restaurants, which seem to have trouble paring their industrial sized recipes down to the scale of a domestic kitchen, the folks at Candle Café make it possible for you to actually recreate their meals. Hold on, I feel a rush coming on.

I garnished this soup with another recipe (adapted slightly) from the book—a miso tahini dipping sauce with shaved carrots and ginger. It balanced the sweetness of the carrot puree with its rich, salty sesame flavor. I added a cold dollop of it onto the warm soup, and I must say, the temperature contrast was really dynamic and heightened the complementary flavors. If you don’t want to get sick, but you do want to get high… make this soup.

Velvety Carrot and Ginger Soup

From Candle Café Cookbook

Serves 4-6

1 Tbsp olive oil
3 medium onions, peeled and chopped
5 cups of vegetable broth
6 large carrots, peeled and chopped
3 tablespoons finely grated fresh ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground coriander
pinch of cayenne
sea sat and freshly ground pepper, to taste

In a large, heavy bottomed stockpot, heat olive oil. Add onions and sauté for about 7 minutes, or until golden.

Add the broth, a cup of water, the carrots and 2 tbsp of ginger. Bring to a boil then reduce heat and simmer, partially covered, for about 20 minutes, or until carrots are tender.

Remove pot from heat and cool for about an hour (if you don’t have an hour, be sure to pure the soup in small batches to prevent heat-related blender accidents…)

Pure the soup in a food processor or blender. Add the remaining ginger, cinnamon and coriander and blend again until very smooth. Serve warm or cold with a dollop of miso tahini dipping sauce and chopped scallions or chives.

Miso Tahini Dipping Sauce

1 c sweet, white miso
1 c water
1 c grated carrot
1 tbsp grated fresh ginger
3 tbsp tahini

Pure miso and water in a blender or food processor. Whisk in tahini until incorporated. Mix in carrots and ginger. Store refrigerated up to 1 week.

It’s still in the upper 80s here in Houston and this is hardest time for me in Texas. July is tough, too, but at least then I know what to expect. I’ve been here for four falls now, but even if I stayed here forever, I’d always ache a bit in October. I’m thinking of what it’s like where I’m from. Right now, the geese fly, the air turns smoky and the red leaves pinwheel onto crackling grass. It will get cooler here in a month or two, but that happens fast. The leaves fall all at once, and the cold rain comes. I look forward to rubber boots and woolen sweaters, but I wish I could light a fire today and feel electrified by the air.

So I pretend. Last night I baked some butternut squash and apples with cinnamon, closed my eyes and imagined the sound of a distant gaggle honk. But the gentle hum of the AC kicked in and ended my reverie. No matter. I can still get McIntosh apples and beautiful golden squash, though not at the farmer’s market. That said, the local arugula is mighty fine, and the Houston honey was just right to dress it. The best part about this meal was that I had enough light to photograph it before it hit the table… back home, it was already dark.

Roasted Butternut Squash with Apples, Arugula and Honey Mustard Vinaigrette

Serves 4

(Please excuse the commentary…)

2 apples, sliced about ½” thick–I like McIntosh

2 c butternut squash, sliced about ½“

1 t cinnamon

4 c arugula

2 T olive oil, plus more for roasting vegetables

1 t mustard

2 t local honey

3 t apple cider vinegar

¼ c roasted nuts or pumpkin seeds

salt and pepper

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Toss squash in a bit of olive oil and place on baking sheet, leaving space between each slice. Sprinkle with salt and cinnamon.

(You may have to bake squash in batches: I prefer my squash slightly crisp, and if you load too many pieces onto a baking sheet at once, they steam.)

Roast at 350 degrees for about 15 minutes.

(I don’t pre-heat the oven when I’m roasting vegetables.)

Flip squash and add apples to the oven, sprinkling with cinnamon.

Roast an additional 15 minutes, checking squash occasionally.

(It can be hard to cut squash, so if your slices aren’t all the same size, some will roast faster than others. Check on the squash regularly and remove any cooked slices.)

In the meantime, place mustard, honey and vinegar in a small bowl and blend.

Whisk in olive oil until emulsified.

Just before serving, toss arugula with dressing.

Arrange squash and apples over salad, sprinkle with nuts and serve.

What can you do with a zucchini to make it appealing seventy-five days in a row? Or really, what can’t you do? I sauté with a variety of sauces and different combinations of onion, shallot, garlic and herb. I grill, I roast. Have you tried Barbara Kingsolver’s chocolate chip cookies with zucchini? The produce is virtually inscrutable except for the telltale strips of bright green skin woven through the crumbs. Grated zucchini baked into bread adds moisture and texture and goes especially well with almond extract and slivered almonds. Trust me.

It will be a sad day for me when summer squash stops appearing. It’s still a month away, here in warm-weather Houston, but with all I’ve said, you can imagine that my diet will change pretty drastically when that time comes.I might also add, however, that sometimes I get a little over-eager. Maybe I don’t need to buy five summer squash and five zucchini at a time. Sometimes I use them all very quickly—especially when I eat at home every night—but sometimes they don’t go so fast, in which case, soup is the best remedy.

This curried zucchini soup came courtesy of one of Martha Stewart’s many publications. I have a friend who gives me hand-me-downs of her magazines, which I peruse over dinner. (Somehow eating always seems like the ideal time to start thinking about eating again.) A few nights ago I came across this recipe, which appealed to me for several reasons. First, I had bought more zucchini than I could comfortably fit inside me in the near-term. Second, I like to make soups that can be served hot or cold. I never know what I’ll be in the mood for at the end of the day.

I’ve garnished this a few ways since making it, including with roasted peppitos, avocado slices and a tablespoon of queso fresco. I’ve also eaten it both hot and cold, strained and chunky. It holds up beautifully any way you serve it, and I have to say, nothing accompanies this soup better than a glass of very cold, very dry white wine. Spicy curry gets cut all the right ways by Sauvignon Blanc, especially the 2007 Cade, which is my favorite, at least while our supply lasts. It may be that wine is the only thing I’ve consumed more of this summer than zucchini. Sad as I am to see this combination go, I look forward to the next iteration… acorn squash and pinot noir.

Curried Zucchini Soup

Serves 4

Adapted from Martha Stewart

1 T olive oil

1 medium onion, chopped

2 t Coarse salt (or to taste)

2 garlic cloves, minced

2 t curry powder

4 c vegetable broth

3 medium zucchini (or a combo of zucchini and summer squash) sliced 1” thick

1 baking potato, peeled and cut into 1” pieces

Avocado and cilantro for garnish

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Heat oil in a large saucepan.

Add onion and 1 salt and cook until soft, about 5 minutes over medium heat.

Add garlic and curry powder and cook about a minute more, stirring occasionally.

Add zucchini, potato, and 4 cups vegetable broth.

Bring to a boil; reduce heat, and simmer until vegetables are tender, 10 to 15 minutes.

In batches, puree soup until smooth.

Serve hot, or let cool, and refrigerate in an airtight container until chilled.

Garnish with avocado slices and cilantro.

If I end my life feeling like a crimson bell pepper, I know I will have lived to height of my sweetness. I plan to be a very delicious old woman. But here the simile ends, because I cannot compare my life so far to that of a green pepper. I love my life—it has already been ripe, juicy, satisfying. Green peppers, on the other hand, are repulsive. I find them entirely too bitter to eat raw, although I might eat one roasted-if the alternative were starvation. In fact, green peppers may be the one and only food I have a genuine distaste for based on flavor and not on principles. (Although I don’t make a habit of eating babies, I’d be a liar if I told you my mouth didn’t water at the scent of roasting lamb…)

Where summer is concerned, I can bring back my literary device. We are heading out of this sweet time, but just before we do, the Earth seems to offer up her very best—her reddest peppers. I can’t eat nearly as many as I can procure in the next few weeks, but I can convert a good many into soup to enjoy during colder months, where the lushness of a bell pepper can only be imported—flown from timeless, far away lands, like California.

This recipe actually came to me from a spa in the Golden State, where I’m sure they never suffer a dearth of fresh produce. It’s intended to be rather light, and I like it the way it is. If you prefer more depth to your soup, the coconut milk is easily substituted with ½ cup of cream. I have stored away a few batches, and look forward to revisiting the taste of early September when the days are very dark and I’ve gotten tired of sweet potatoes. I may polish it off sooner than that, though, as it’s absolutely delicious chilled and served with sliced avocado, or just a few sprigs of cilantro.

Roasted Red Pepper Soup

4 large red bell peppers

4 large tomatoes

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon all purpose flour

1 large chopped yellow onion

4 cups chicken broth

¾ cup light coconut milk

salt and pepper

garnish of your choice

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Preheat the oven to 450 degrees.

Coat the peppers and tomatoes with olive oil and place on a baking sheet.

Roast for 20-30 minutes, or until the skin begins to peel and blacken.

Remove peppers and tomatoes and place in a bowl covered with plastic wrap until cool enough to handle.

Peel and roughly chop peppers and tomatoes, being sure to collect their juice in a bowl.

Discard stems and skins.

In a large saucepan, heat remaining olive oil and sauté onion until translucent.

Add tomatoes and peppers and sweat over low heat for 2-3 minutes.

Add flour and stir to coat.

Add chicken broth and coconut milk and simmer for 30 minutes, adding more broth if the soup reduces too much.

Puree in a blender and pass through a sieve or food mill if desired.

Keep warm, or serve chilled, with garnish.

For most of my life, I’ve not been a chicken roaster. I’m aware that this topic might inspire various moans and groans and “Is she actually talking about roasting a chicken?” responses. But I think that people who feel that way may have forgotten—or never suffered from weekly-roast-chicken-deprivation—how hard it is to imagine that a grayish, pimpled, heavy lump of a cold carcass could create something as spectacularly juicy and golden as a properly roasted chicken. If you’ve ever been dissuaded by the appearance of a raw bird, well, this post’s for you.

Before I get into it, I must also say this: the origins of your bird are highly important. I recently wrote about the treatment of chickens in factory farms, and cannot emphasize enough how critical it is to procure your poultry from a reputable, neighborly type. If you can find a local farmer whose chickens you can visit—which is easier than you probably think—then please do that. You don’t even have to visit: just knowing that somebody in your area has his own chicken or hen operation feels mighty good.

Typically, Christopher and I fetch our chicken at the Saturday morning market. If the farmer is out of fresh birds, we buy one frozen. We also pick up our weekly eggs and bring Mr. Hatterman his egg box back to fill again. I get a secret (no longer) thrill of returning last week’s egg carton. Maybe he’s just playing along, but he always acts surprised and delighted. Anyway…if the bird was frozen, it sits in the refrigerator until late Sunday afternoon. Either way, we take her out at about 4 in the afternoon so she can come to room temperature before the 5:30 roast.

For the first few chicken-roasting weeks, I spent about 15 minutes over the sink, seriously contemplating a whole-hearted return to vegetarianism. Let me assure you—if you’ve also been deterred by this part of the process—that cleaning the bird gets easier. I no longer close my eyes and hold my breath while searching in a dark, slick chicken cavity for packets of innards and the loose giblet or two. At first, I squealed and tried to make haste during the dismemberment process. Now, I remain fully present, although I won’t lie and say I let it take any longer than it has to. I believe it is total cowardice to eat meat and not think about the meaning of the animal’s life, or to participate, even in some small way, in what it takes to get an animal ready for consumption. I don’t mean to belabor death here, but if you seriously can’t imagine cleaning a bird, then you should rethink your comfort with eating it.

I am a vegetarian most days of the week, but Sunday chickens are a habit worth having. I can’t tell which comes first, the smell or the sound…the popping chicken skin may be just as pleasing to hear as it is to sniff. For a full hour or so more, the little kitchen of ours fills up with the most heavenly scent on earth. I spend every minute before 7 inside, fully enjoying the extraordinary transformation the house makes into a home. Michael Pollan commented on how meat brings people together in The Omnivore’s Dilemma. Early man, he claims, didn’t throw ragers over the discovery of a yam patch. Meat is a celebratory thing: its smell and taste are hardwired in our evolution as symbols of communality, security and celebration. There really is something to it the appetite that builds inside of me during those Sunday evenings has never been paralleled by the roasting of a vegetable or the searing of seitan. As I pull the bird from the oven, all I can think of is the parallel between cooking and alchemy: how the whitish grey skin is transformed into a taught, gold, herb-infused crown, just waiting to be sliced and divided among those who have waited all week.

I am aware that there are many basic methods of roasting a chicken, but mine works for me. No matter what, don’t lose confidence in the simplicity of it: olive oil or butter; salt; pepper are really all it takes. If you want to up the ante (and spend an extra 5 minutes prepping) some herbs and aromatics go a very long way. Serving this with a side of roasted potatoes and a simple green salad is as good as dinner gets.

Herb Roasted Chicken

1 chicken- approximately 5-6 pounds

1 lemon, sliced in half

2 garlic cloves

3 sprigs rosemary

3 sprigs thyme

2 tablespoons dried herbs (I like herbes de provence)

2 tablespoons browned butter or olive oil

salt and pepper

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Preheat oven to 425.

Remove lingering giblets from the chicken.

Wash thoroughly, inside and out.

Dry completely with paper towels, inside and out (this is critical if you want a brown, crisp chicken, because water inside the skin or body will cause it to steam and the skin to separate and soften).

Stuff with fresh herbs and lemon halves.

Cut two 1” slits just about the thighs and insert garlic clove in each.

Coat chicken with brown butter or olive oil.

Season with herbs and sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper.

Roast chicken for 1 ½ hours then test for doneness by slicing between the leg and thigh: if the juice is clear, the chicken is ready.