I Roasted a Chicken WARNING: Gross

Every self-respecting Southerner knows how to roast a chicken, and my time came this morning. Katie used a recipe that we're running in January to roast a chicken last week, and then she and Luke brought me some of the soup she made with it. Delicious! She said it wasn't hard, so I bought two 5-pound roasting chickens last night, ready to do this thing. (You want to know how too? Buy the January 2009 issue of Southern Living. Sorry, folks, desperate times call for desperate measures. If I go giving away our secrets for free, I might not have a job.)

Opening the raw chicken. Ew, just, ew. I have no problem with raw beef. But raw chicken still looks like a...chicken. I shed a tear, had a moment of silence, and then pulled it out of the package. Shudder.


I pulled this little plastic thingy out. I have no idea what it is or what it's for. I hope I didn't need it because it's gone now.


Katie's innards were in a little bag inside the chicken. Mine were not. I almost quit. But then I pulled these out. I don't even know if that's all of it. Or too much. I might've pulled out some good meat. I wasn't taking any chances.


I lovingly patted on the salt, pepper, and garlic powder mixture. Sorry, little chicken.


Then I melted the butter and olive oil in Sara's Le Creuset. I really want a Le Creuset dutch oven for Christmas. A red one.


Cooking. This is actually chicken #2. I forgot to take a picture of the first one in the pot.


And—drumroll, please—the finished product.


So the meat is falling off the bone, and it looks moist. Plus I have some really good broth for homemade chicken noodle soup. But, I don't know. It was an involved—and rather disgusting—process when I could've just bought a rotisserie chicken for $4.99. (These little roasters were seven bucks each!)