Roast chicken is comfort food. Easy, delicious, visual. Skin so crisp you save it for that one last gluttonous bite. And once all is devoured, the carcass transformed, becomes chicken soup. So roast chicken, after a long day or cold winter night, takes it home.
Mama taught me to cook. With abit of tough love, there I was on a stool, stir frying bean sprouts. Roast chicken was a family dish that mama made on special occasions. An Asian twist, she’d stuff the bird with lemongrass and coat the skin with soy sauce. I was always fascinated by how one chicken can bring smiles but also petty arguments for the chicken part one deserves.
We watched a lot of television growing up, especially since the Channel 8 drama series was the best way to learn mandarin (and adulthood). My favourite however was the travel and living channel, where the likes of Anthony Bourdain and Jamie Oliver ignited a thirst for adventure, to “Get out”, be curious and explore the elements of a plate.
And so I did, and the world opened itself up to me;
For the place, that is history, tradition and culture
For the produce, if quality and sustainable, to be cooked simply
For the process, that is creative, dynamic but meditative
For the people, harvesting, cooking and sharing the joys of eating
Where conversations begin, relationships deepen, the ties that bind
All, with a plate full of wonder