The Roast Returns

Perhaps for someone from these mountainous and all too often ovenless Spanish lands, it might not sound too strange when I say that I haven't roasted a chicken in two years. However, for anyone from the same world as me, where an oven is an acceptable substitute for a best friend and a roast dinner is the awake equivalent of a good night's sleep, it is unsettling news. So, if you are of the latter type, then take heart: those two years are officially over.

There is an oven in my life again. Some almost believably "free-range" chickens apeared on the butcher's counter in the market. A bunch of thyme bewitched me with its homely aroma wafting over from the vegetable stand. Not only that, but a juicy tub of French goose fat caught my eye as I was buying my butter and eggs, and some friends offered themselves up to do what the best of friends do: eat at my table.

Like everything I cook, this came with lashings of garlic, sweetened to a crisp alongside fat potatoes, thanks to Mr. Goose. I allowed the Spanish air to meddle with my roots, adding a 'mojo'; a Canary Islands coriander dip, and a grilled red pepper salad (both, of course, stinking of garlic). For once, I managed to do the right thing and share my cheese; French raw milk reblochón, hard goat's from Murcia, bathed in red wine, and a super fresh and mild goat's from an organic co-operative just outside Madrid. I even laid them out lovingly with grapes.

The feast was rounded up with ice cream and, of course, a siesta (these are good friends of the type that don't mind if you fall asleep on them during lunch). Now my house is left with the holy grail of smells floating through the open doors; slowly simmering chicken stock that will make a good base for whatever garlic-overloaded form my next meal takes.

Photo thanks to Chio :)

This post is proud to be part of Fight Back Fridays held at www.foodrenegade.com