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You know Frank—he's been writing about menswear, sales, television, new shops, the recession, Lisa Loeb, the Golden Girls and getting blasted for Racked for over a year. Well, we think it's time you got to know him and his quirky-irreverent views on life and fashion even better with his brand new column: Love, Frank. Taking the form of an open letter and always signed with love, Frank will rant about whatever style-related conundrum he encounters in a given week. So buckle your two-toned leather Moschino belts, folks, it's going to be ? Something.
Image via fabriquefantastique on Etsy
After spending your first weekend doing a fair amount of sale shopping, we resolved to refocus our efforts and our money. One thing we considered—while blowing through Barneys where the holiday windows celebrate foodie culture and celebrity chefs—was the notion of spending more time and money on domestic pursuits, such as cooking.
We're not totally a lost cause in the kitchen. We have some dishes that are, frankly, nothing to scoff at. We're often asked to prepare a little something for parties; to share recipes; for basic advice. But we're admittedly timid when it comes to cooking certain foods. Meat, in general, can be an undertaking; a whole chicken terrifies.
Anyway, after we finished petting our new coat and scarf and floating around the apartment donning our new houndstooth sunglasses, we set out to make that whole chicken—we envisioned a perfect, golden bird and many subsequent meals: A hearty chicken soup, perhaps sandwiches stuffed with tarragon-laced or curried chicken salad. A week of home-cooked, responsible, delectable, economical meals. A week consumed with a pursuit less frivolous—and certainly much less expensive—then trolling SoHo and the West Village for designer on clearance.
On our way to the grocery store someone offered to buy our new coat off our backs—we were feeling good!
At the store we stood in line behind someone with a tiny, deli-rotisseried chicken, a bagged salad and a bottled vinaigrette. Smugly, we noted that her tiny chicken was practically the same price as our grass-fed six-pounder. And we eyed our arugula proudly, knowing full well our home-dressed salad would knock her sad, wilted mess out of the water. Plus, someone just offered to buy our coat on the street!
So, we washed and dried and seasoned that chicken, stuffing it with fresh thyme and garlic, wedges of lemon and tangerine. We tied it closed and covered it up and put it in the oven and waited as it infused the entire floor with the aroma of citrus and butter and herbs.
When we took it out of the oven someone pointed out that we roasted it upside down.
Recovering, we realized we had no idea how to carve it and ended up on Google reading various on-line articles and watching YouTube videos posted by the Pampered Chef.
Oh, and then it hit the floor. The whole chicken slipped off the platter and hit the floor.
Chickens are slippery.
We're guessing we were becoming unhinged on our hands and knees degreasing the kitchen tile with our perfect, home-roasted chicken disfigured and destroyed and flopped into a big bowl on the floor next to us right around the same time that bitch from the grocery store was tearing into her tiny, deli-rotisseried chicken.
Our salad was still better.
In conclusion: Y'all can have your damn whole roasted chickens—we're sticking to shopping. And, occasionally simple pasta dishes. But mostly shopping.
· Love, Frank [RNA]