I was left holding the chicken as it were. This is fairly appalling to admit but, I am 30 years old have no idea what to do with a whole chicken. I have no problem with rustling up a bog standard meal, but a whole roast chicken is definitely husbands department.
I tried to shove a lemon and several garlic cloves into its neck stump instead of its rear cavity, I then covered it with olive oil and nearly dropped the slippery sucker when transferring it to the roasting dish. It is only because the husband mentioned basting during one of my ‘check on the man with man flu’ trips that I didn’t present the children with meat the consistency of one of Ghandi’s flip flops.
It was delicious; I sat with the children and told them what a wonderful chicken it was and how lucky they were to have a Mummy that could cook such a splendid roast. They agreed with everything I said because they didn’t want to eat their broccoli.
Husband ate his later when he had stopped shivering. He hasn’t yet passed comment on the quality which can only mean that he is frightened of losing his ‘Best British Roaster’ title … ahem.