We had a super-fresh, free-range chicken to roast. So fresh and free-range, the head and feet were still on.
Boy, a couple whacks with a cleaver. Such primitive, physical satisfaction. Everybody should have a cleaver for times like that.
Then, suddenly, I got all mesmerized by Marmite, that jar of brown yeast goo that people either love or hate. I was stuck on toast, but darn it, I needed to eat that chicken.
We had done the proper presalting of the bird, and a quick check in Joy of Cooking confirmed the best oven temperature, time and thigh temperature.
Oh, by the way, Joy added alluringly... rub the skin with butter. M'kay?
Suddenly we knew just what to do. Cranky melted a little butter in a pan, and stirred in the perfect proportion of Marmite. How did he know what the perfect proportion should be? Heck, he's been making Marmite toast and butter for two days now; he's an expert already.
So I slathered that liquid gold all over the chicken skin, with my bare hands (mmm, moan, sigh...). And popped her into the oven for about an hour.
We couldn't resist peeking in there every so often, to see what our experiment might yield. It was looking pretty good: crisp and fragrant and brown.
And what did it taste like? Crisp and fragrant and brown chicken. It tasted like really good roasted chicken, but a little... browner.
I'd wager that I could serve this chicken to a Marmite-averse person and get away with it. No, I'd wager that the Marmite-averse person would be begging me for my recipe.