How tiresome, in truth, was that silly vermouth

Tonight I made Forty Garlic Chicken, from Recipes Retold. The first time I was told about Forty Garlic Chicken, I said I’d never make it. Peeling all that garlic was too much work. I was assured that I must be peeling garlic the hard way. Put it on the counter and whack it with the side of a knife; the skin would slip right off.

Only problem was, that is exactly how I peel garlic. I still figured it was too much work. If I want to stand around and bang things repeatedly, my head and the wall are always handy. So Forty Garlic Chicken remained on my list of Things I Will Never Cook Because They’re Just Too Much Darn Trouble. I don’t make puff pastry, either.

Somewhere along the line, I must have had a change of heart, because I saw this recipe and was immediately seized with the desire to try it out. I really need to learn to throttle impulses like that. Culinary curiosity will be the death of me.

Circumstances left me with forty minutes to cook an hour recipe, and still-frozen chicken that took twenty minutes to thaw. It didn’t matter, however; I spent twenty-five pounding on garlic. Forty cloves of garlic sounds like a lot when you read the recipe; let me assure you, it looks like a metric ton when you’re facing it across the chopping board with your French chef’s knife.

Eventually I got the garlic into the pan, and went on my merry way with the rest of the recipe. “Sprinkle remaining ingredients over chicken.” Remaining ingredients. Okay. “1/2 c. white wine.” Planning menus and using them to make the shopping list does absolutely no good when fate intervenes and prevents you from finishing the shopping. No white wine. Fine. I can vamp; I’ll use sherry.

Fine. Except that I do not have enough sherry. Not only do I not have enough sherry to replace the white wine, I don’t have enough to replace the vermouth, which I also did not buy. I have to confess, though – I had absolutely no plans to buy vermouth in the first place. There are no martini drinkers around here. I do occasionally find a recipe that requires vermouth, but in such small amounts that I’m sure I’d end up with a lovely big bottle of Famously Useless Vermouth sharing shelf space with the Famously Useless Poppy Seed.

Sometimes you just have to subordinate good cooking to the fact that if dinner doesn’t hit the table more or less on time, you’re going to have a rebellion on your hands. I closed my eyes, poured on the sherry, and went firmly on to the next ingredient, which was olive oil. I had a bad moment when I couldn’t find the spare bottle – what will be next? will the chicken up and walk out the door? – but it eventually gave up its game of hide-and-go-seek and we moved on.

The one part of the recipe I really wasn’t sure about was that lemon peel. I have an on-again, off-again relationship with citrus peel. On the one hand, I can’t deny that it gives dishes a nice flavor boost. On the other hand, citrus peel has bitter oils that sometimes give me fits. On the principle that I should give the recipe author the benefit of the doubt, I carefully peeled the zest, chopped it as instructed, sprinkled it on, and prayed.

Once again the “salt and pepper to taste” monsters struck, too. I’m sprinkling that salt and pepper onto raw chicken, sweetheart; I’m not tasting it until it’s too late to adjust it anyway. I gave a vigorous shake and a few good twists of the pepper grinder and sent the saltshaker to the showers.

As I had predicted, I didn’t have enough time to finish the cooking, so I left it in Bigglest’s capable hands and went off to my meeting. I don’t recommend discussing finances on an empty stomach. When we came back, however, we were greeted with the most delicious smell. All that oregano had clearly done some good. The Hub and I eagerly dished up, scooping some really appealing-looking juices onto our rice. Frankly, I think we’re lucky we got any.

The consensus among the family is that this is good stuff. That worrying lemon peel blended in nicely, the meat was moist and delicious, and as for the garlic, I believe I’ve made my position on garlic clear in other places.

We’ll see who still thinks this is good stuff when it comes time to peel the garlic, because no way am I ever again peeling forty cloves unaccompanied. And it needed more salt. But I’m thinking this might be a good dinner after a Sunday afternoon spent watching our favorite Philadelphia sports teams lose yet another crucial game.