We'll all have chicken and dumplings ...

At our house, we do not cook, eat, or even talk about chicken. It's not chicken, not to us. It's cheeeeeeeken.

Let me explain: Our friend Tiffany is an opera singer. And one of her directors was (probably still is) an eccentric man and also a man of Eastern European descent. This director once brought to rehearsal—we kid you not—the following snack, to share with his company:

1. two rotisserie chickens
2. one jar of mayonnaise

As if that weren't odd enough, he then announced to the group, in an accent characteristic of his heritage, "I brought cheeeeeekens." What can we say? We heard the story, and it stuck for us, so now that's how we say the word. (Thanks, Tiffany.)

So when you see (for space) the word chicken here, assume we're really saying cheeeeeeeken. We humbly submit that it will improve the experience of reading this post.

Tonight's dinner, for a change of poultry pace this Thanksgiving weekend, is "Chicken and Dumplings, the Easy Way," from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything (Kyle's go-to cookbook).

I ❤ Mark Bittman 

I, Kyle, had never worked with a whole raw chicken, and I can now join the ranks of those who have learned what a hilarious ingredient they are. A turkey, of course, is big, which limits the amount of silliness one can commit. A chicken, on the other hand, can be held in that hand, leaving the first hand free to take a picture of the rather silly tableau (an "Alas, poor Yorick," perhaps). Unfortunately, my first hand would have been holding an i-Phone, so I wasn't nuts about the prospect of actually trying this. I got it on the counter instead:

I didn't even mean for the wings to look so silly.

After taking a stab at trimming the "visible fat" (I took that to mean extra skin around the neck and cavity), I put the bird into the stockpot with the carrots, onions, leeks, and liquid (mostly water, with some canned chicken stock to help out a bit). 

I added the spices (allspice berries, whole black peppercorns, thyme, bay leaf) a little late, so I was generous with them (blogging does take one's head out of the game). The chicken, and so also the amount of liquid, was on the large side of Bittman's suggested range, so that seemed sensible.

Thanks for the stockpot, Adam and Melissa! It has contributed
immensely to our quality of life.

I have never made biscuits, so getting the dumpling dough ready was a bit of a challenge. It felt to me like the ratio of buttermilk to the other ingredients was a little low, but I ended up with the "ball of dough" that Bittman describes, so I guessed I was good to go (my professional baker sister is probably rolling her eyes).

Next came the transfer of the chicken, which I found to be easier said than done and would certainly be tough to do with a (single!) slotted spoon, if I might beg Mr. Bittman's pardon. (This was, conveniently, when Kristin arrived home from yoga, hence the action shot.)

Somebody with two thumbs and a Mark Bittman cookbook
has difficulty estimating onion size.

After removing the chicken, I reduced the broth for a bit—partly for the tastiness of the broth, and partly because I had a hard time deciding what "bubbl[ing] vigorously" but not "rolling" meant.

When I could dither no more, it came time for the dumpling drop, which (even after a sentimental holiday weekend) brought back all kinds of warm fuzzy memories of dumpling making in the Oliver household (it wasn't a fixture or anything, but I remember it well because I think the way they cook is nifty).

How can you not love this?

Twelve minutes, one foam-over, and several toothpick pokes later, our little babies were ready to go.

Yes, that is a Manhattan subway map
spoon rest.

That's about all there was to it. We served the chicken and vegetables in deep bowls with a couple dumplings and some broth (which by the end was indeed pretty tasty).

Kristin is a beautiful photographer, no?

Our grace this evening: "Thank you God, for the cheeeeeeeeken." Amen.