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| Crispy Oven Baken Chicken with Apple Cider Vinegar Glazed Collard Greens and Homemade Biscuits |
There’s some shaking and some baking going on around here. But even though we’re rockin’ you can come a knockin’!
The recipe
Crispy Oven Baked Chicken or Not Fried Fried Chicken
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| All shook up and ready to bake |
One 4lb chicken cut into 12 pieces. Why twelve you ask? It doesn’t have to be twelve it can be as many or as few pieces as you want. Ten would work too. But the fryer I bought had big breasts- like most chickens do these days- and I don’t know about you but I feel just a teensy bit overwhelmed if I’m given a whole breast. (I could elucidate about thighs now but we are already in dangerous territory)
The marinade
2 cups buttermilk
1 TBS hot sauce- I like Frank’s or Crystal
Marinate chicken at least four or up to 12 hours
The coating
1 cup panko breadcrumbs
1 cup cornmeal
½ tsp salt
1 tsp pepper
1 tsp Aleppo pepper flakes
½ tsp herbs de Provence
some blackening powder, some paprika
You get the idea, spice as much or as little as you want. I honestly can’t remember exactly what I threw in.
1 egg
1 cup of the buttermilk from the marinade
2 TBS melted butter
1 tsp of pesto (I used chive, and the pesto may be a gratuitous addition but my reasoning was another layer of herb and garlic flavor, plus that bit of cheese)
Drain remaining buttermilk marinade off of chicken, coat in egg mixture, then coat in topping. You can dredge the pieces to coat them or throw the coating in a paper bag and shake.
At this point the chicken can stay refrigerated for up to three hours before you bake.
Drizzle with olive oil or butter if desired
Bake at 425 for 40-50 minutes, until topping is rich brown and crispy and the chicken is at a temperature safe for consumption.
Serve hot or at room temperature.
The Fiction
Fried Chicken that’s not fried? Chocolate Martinis are not really Martinis and rattlesnake does not taste like chicken and so I offer you fiction that is not fiction but more of a poem (and an old one at that.)
Chicken
Inside the fence there was a pecking order:the dominant rooster,his hens—speckled browns and whiteswith red eyes, bright pink crowns—the other rooster, then me.In the mornings, I shadowed momas we raided nests,hands burrowing between feathers and hayto find eggs, still warm,stacking them in our baskets.Sometimes I dallied and foundmyself alone in the coop.The other rooster would chase me,flap his brick-red wings and crow, peckingthe backs of my bare legs.My older siblings would watchfrom outside the coop and laugh untilI cried, then they would openthe gate and let me run through.At killing time, I watchedmy brothers hold the hens and myfather hold the axe. After each head toppledoff the block, the chicken’s body,released, would run, drippingcandy kisses of blood across the ground.Bets were taken on the distance,but no chicken ever made it outof the yard, they all collapsedheadless in the dust. Mom scoopedup the corpses, carried themto the kitchen where a vat of simmeringwater waited. The swollen scentof wet feathers filled the houseas each bird was scalded and then plucked,their feet chopped off and givento me as toys. My brothers taughtme to pull the tendons, to animatethe taloned feet. I laughed as I scratchedthe air with the claws and chasedmy sisters whose memories were longer,who could still see the chickenswhole and pecking at the seedwe’d scattered in the dirt.
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