Roast Chicken

Yesterday, I roasted the chicken I wrote about in my last post. I ran into my first problem when I realized I didn’t have a beer can. I had beer, just not in a can. Images of exploding glass deterred me from attempting to stuff a beer bottle in the chicken cavity. The solution to my dilemma presented itself in the form of a stainless steel measuring cup. It fit in the cavity nicely and held the desired beer. I threw some whole garlic coves into the cavity, rubbed salt all over the skin and put it in the oven at 350F. When Nicole arrived baring fresh rosemary, I pulled the chicken out and stuck sprigs of that inside the chicken with the garlic and the measuring cup of beer and sprinkled rosemary all over the top.
The chicken cooked for about an hour and a half filling the whole house with the smell of rosemary. How did it taste when it came out? I was delicious! Nicole and I both thought so, and stuffed ourselves full. Even so there was quite a bit of meat left and I let it sit out on the stove until it could cool enough to put in the fridge.
My differential equations studying went somewhat less well than my dinner. With a contentedly full stomach, I wanted to sleep or bounce of the walls. I was halfheatedly trying to study when somebody I know from okcupid offered to help me. What joy! I grabbed my books and went over to his house for a couple hours. It turned out that I didn’t really need help. All I needed was the option of help. Sitting on the couch with somebody of whom I could ask questions, I answered all my questions myself. On my way home, it occurred to me that I hadn’t put away the chicken.

When I opened the front door, the first thing I looked at was the stove. I was relieved to see all the pans exactly where I’d left them. I walked over the chicken pan to see if I could put the whole chicken in the fridge. There was no chicken. I looked at Colby-Jack in horror and marched into the living room. I expected to see a gnawed chicken carcass adorning the living room rug or perhaps lurking behind the couch. There was nothing.
I wondered if I’d put the chicken away absentmindedly and forgotten. That’s something I would do. I looked in the fridge. No chicken. Upon a second inspection of the living room I found…. The measuring cup that had been inside the chicken. Colby-Jack followed me licking his chops.
He ate the whole things bones and all. A greasy spot on the kitchen floor revealed where my dog had his feast, but that is the only other sign of chicken to date.
In conclusion the roast chicken was a great success. Nicole, myself and Colby-Jack all found it to be delicious.