Sunday Roast Chicken

First, the foundation — mirepoix. French for “congratulations, after a semester of practice your knife skills still suck.” Dice carrot, celery, and onion into cubes. Smash a few cloves of garlic, toss it all into a sautoir (or if, like me, you lack the gear, a ceramic casserole dish). Drizzle with olive oil. Season with some salt.

Now comes the fun part: giving your chicken a full-body oil massage, like it’s about to hit the beach in Mykonos. Then season it with plenty of salt and pepper. And, as every good dominatrix knows, it’s time to truss the little bastard — tie it up nice and tight so it can’t escape your culinary ambitions.

Toss the bird in at 400°F and don’t forget to baste it. I mean, you wouldn’t hit the beach without reapplying lotion, right? We’re not looking to add another cast member to Jersey Shore. The chicken should hit an internal temp of 180°F — which takes about 1.5 hours, depending on size.

The onion and sage dressing is basically a butter-soaked bread dish with a healthy hit of chicken liver, eight to be exact — because nothing says “gourmet” like sautéing the organs your dog usually gets. To tone down that iron-y liver taste, blanche them first in boiling water, then sauté in butter, and add your onions. Once cooked, toss in stale bread cubes, parsley, sage, and salt. Then drown the whole mix in stock and egg, and bake until golden. An internal temp of 165°F — about 25 minutes.

Slice your sprouts in half and pan-fry until they’re caramelized enough to trick people into thinking you actually like them. Season with salt, add chili flakes for attitude, and hit them with lemon juice for a little sass.

When the chicken’s done, remove it and skim the fat from the pan juices. Deglaze with white wine (one splash for the pan, one glass for the chef). Add chicken stock, reduce, and whisk in a cornstarch slurry to finish. Smooth, glossy, and not at all vegan-approved.

As I plated this final project, I couldn’t help but reflect on the body count:

• One chicken sacrificed for the roast.

• Two more for the stock in the jus lié.

• Eight chicken livers for the dressing.

That’s eleven chickens who gave their lives for this Sunday dinner. An entire cast wiped out for the sake of my culinary ambitions.

The roast? Moist but under-seasoned — a reminder that brining is for people with better time management. The dressing? Rich, smooth, and slightly liver-heavy. Maybe next time I’ll save two final girls, Henrietta and Dorothy, to live another day. The jus lié? Saucy and comforting, despite my forgetting the spice mix.

At this point, I’m not sure if I’m a culinary student or the villain in a poultry-based slasher film. But hey — if the series ends here, maybe Netflix will greenlight me for a spin-off.