My Big Green Egg betrayed me—last night I opened the lid to put the chicken in, and accidently let the vent flop open, thus allowing a whoosh of oxygen to rush into the fire. While I ran inside to help my daughter juice some fruits and vegetables, the temperature in the egg went up to some 750F—great for a quick sear on a steak, not so good on a whole chicken. I smelled the smoke about 25 minutes later and winced as I opened the grill lid: the chicken skin was graphite black and papery, like the outside of a marshmallow that had strayed too close to the flame. Sometimes as it seems to be this week, my cooking goes south: my own little losing streak. There’s the accumulation of little errors: onions that blacken instead of slowly browning in the pan, that overgenerous pinch of salt in the beans. Most often I can blame distraction, plenty of it provided by homework assistance, spontaneous tag games and looming deadlines. I pride myself on pulling together relatively simple good suppers for my family most nights, but when I get on an off streak, everything comes into question. Who am I to give cooking advice to anyone else? Wouldn’t takeout be a better option for the next several nights? But of course we all make mistakes. I think the answer, in these cases, is to pull out a recipe from an old reliable source, and to cook, just for a night or so, with someone else’s guiding hand, whether that’s mom’s old recipe or Marion Cunningham’s. Then you regain your sense of confidence and can right yourself again.
As for that blackened chicken? We made due: I peeled off the skin, and the chicken was still moist inside. It was a little smoke-acrid, but it was dinner. I didn’t save the leftovers, though.