Easy oriental part 7 – Tea Smoked Chicken

This post could have almost as easily been titled “Prelude to a divorce”. You need to understand that the Wife is a lady of habit. One of the fulcrums around which she runs her life is her mugs of tea. Not tea-bag tea. Proper leaf tea. I have even been swayed over to enjoying a mug or three at 06:30 most mornings. So when I suggested that I might use a couple of tablespoons of our regular tea leafs to cook a chicken, I got a pretty frosty reaction.

International visitors? Serve Chicken Sekela (what else?).

Those of you who don’t know me so well would not know that we are a reasonably far-flung family. My sister and her family live in Norway and my youngest brother (the baby, ahhh.) and his family reside in Tanzania. As you could imagine, there is high excitement in our household when youngest brother and family and eldest sister come to visit. It’s not often we have such an international get together. Part of this excitement manifests itself in my cooking for them and us. We try to do it nice and casual and allow the meal act as an excuse for enjoying each other’s company. However, I do like to experiment where I can.

Chicken drumsticks and why you should om nom nominate me.

I laughed at the word NOMINATE. I am destined to get your vote. Think about the appropriateness to a food blog; NOM in ATE. Get it? Of course you do. Now, if I expect you to nominate me in the Irish Blog Awards, I need to give you something. So I am giving you this fantastic recipe for Honey Mustard Chicken Drumsticks. I came across the recipe and modified it from The Barbecue Book by Eric Treuillé & Birgit Erath published by DK – The best barbecue book I have ever encountered. 

Spatchcocked Chicken – The heat is off.

Glen Frey did a great job with ‘The Heat Is On’. I find it hard to imagine that I could raise any enthusiasm for the opposite. Imagine a song called ‘The Heat Is Off’. I had received my instructions from Texas (more of that here) and I was going to cook a pretty tongue melting chili concoction for my invited family guests. They were going to enjoy one of the hottest dishes I have ever created. It was going to be hot and great. For sure, the heat was on! That was until I got an early morning call from my mother. 

The McGary Chili Challenge – An attack on European harmony?

There’s an old story about a farmer from Texas visiting Ireland. When he got to his three storey hotel, he tipped back his ten gallon hat and remarked that in Texas they had hotels that reached the sky. He went on a bus tour of Connemara and when he saw the mountains, he said that the mountains in Texas were at least ten times bigger. Just outside Lisdoonvarna, the tour bus broke down and the Texan had to walk into town.

You Ingrates! Here’s something similar done with chicken.

Do you guys think I’m doing this for my own amusement? I have to tell you I am not impressed. I spend the early part of the week cogitating “What would they like to see?”  “What would be good enough to share with them?” “I’ll need to buy another couple of plates, they are probably bored with these ones…” The thought process goes on. The angst builds until I finally settle on cooking something that I am convinced will win you over. The latter part of the week is spent ensuring I have the best and the freshest ingredients. Saturday, I check my camera gear. Tension in the household mounts. On Saturday evening or possibly Sunday, I take control of the kitchen and cook and photograph for you. Then I process the pictures and try to think of something to say.

Mum’s roast chicken – I can do better, can’t I?

I’ll admit it. There is a dumb-assed competitive streak in me that most men will, and no women can, understand. I leave my eldest daughter out of this as she is the only female I know who has a peppering of this lunacy. When she’s with me, every flight of stairs is an opportunity for a race, every doorway a chance to get through first and even getting groceries in the supermarket is a test of speed and endurance as tins of beans and fresh vegetables are thrown into the trolley as she runs by to finish her list before I do mine.

Red Cooked Chicken – The Wife Wins Again

I’m not  a big man. I stand about 5′ 8″ in my socks (not a sight you would want to see). When I married the Wife a good few years ago, I was smart enough to be sure that I married somebody smaller than me. That way, she would represent no physical danger. As I have matured over the years, I realise that there are more ways to be threatened by the Wife than with simple physical violence. 

“Ip’s mab plue. Gib me garbic.” (It’s Man Flu. Give me garlic.)

“Bllllpppppp.” (The sound of me blowing my nose). Not the best way for you to start reading this post. Not the most pleasant way for me to be writing it. The Wife and the Mother both need feeding this evening and I am completely under the weather. It could even be the dreaded Man Flu. “Bllllpppppp. Uggghhhh.” I need to get plenty of garlic, lemon and rosemary into me to beat off the devastation that this Man Flu is wreaking on my system.

Master in my own kitchen? – It’s risotto again.

The worst thing the unfortunate food blogger (UFB) can hear is “Cook it again.” If the UFB spends time repeating stuff, they, like a baguette left out in the sun, will go stale. So, when my eldest daughter (ED), herself a blogger, began to put me under pressure, I had to do my best to resist.