I used to be a Cooking Light junkie. When I still worked at Waldenbooks (when there still was Waldenbooks) I looked forward to the box of magazines that would yield the new issue, through which I would eagerly page looking for new ideas. At that time, my husband David was still away doing Army stuff (we joked that even though he was Army Reserve, whose motto was "one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer", we only got to see him one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer) so I was in charge of getting real food into myself and Emily.
The cover of the October 2004 issue featured an extremely attractive recipe for Cider-Roasted Chicken, which I immediately decided I had to try. Soon after purchasing the magazine I went out to the market and purchased all of the ingredients, including a small roasting chicken. When I got home, I began my preparations: following the directions, I carefully removed the packaging on the chicken and fished out the bag of giblets. I then thoroughly washed the chicken and set it on a measuring cup at the very back of the kitchen sink to drain.
At the time, we had an aging English Springer Spaniel named Teegan. Springers are quirky by nature (one source states that if you have a ghost in your house you should obtain a spaniel because they will chase the ghost away with their goofy nature) and Teegan was no exception. She helped raise Emily (she is in virtually every photo of Emily from babyhood on); she ate watermelon with me when I was pregnant; she loved green beans. In the span of her lifetime she never, ever curled a lip at a child--even when they pulled her ears, lips, fur and stubby tail.
Teegan was named for a character on Doctor Who--a bossy, outspoken Australian airline hostess who questioned everything the 800-odd-year-old Doctor did and who had a habit of barking responses when she didn't like what he said. I just liked the name: I didn't realize that the puppy who climbed over all the other puppies to get to us was an alpha dog--which meant she was bossy--would also always be after my job, literally nipping at me, challenging me (and not in a playful way), and talking back to me if I scolded her. When David was away, she would try to promote me to Alpha Male by taking over my side of the bed and pushing me over to his. She was also the Wolf in Our Living Room, the Mighty Hunter, a Dog's Dog. You could play tug of war with her for hours and her teeth would never come near you, but if she got hold of something she knew she wasn't supposed to have, she became a different dog--demonically possessive. Before you ask, yes we worked with her--with limited success. She was determined to be the Boss.
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| Teegan, sitting at David's computer--you guessed it--at the dining room table |
When this all occurred, Teegan had reached the venerable age of ten years: the only evidence of her status as a senior citizen was that she had gone utterly and completely deaf (and was really enjoying it--there were times when you could just see her looking at us waving our arms and thinking "this is GREAT!").
Imagine for a moment your kitchen sink and how high it is off the ground. Now imagine an English Springer Spaniel--a dog whose shoulder comes roughly to your knee--next to the sink. Tack on 10 years--that's 70 in dog years--to the dog and what you've got is the equivalent of my mother attempting the high jump.
Except my mother is not Teegan. My mother knits; Teegan is the Mighty Hunter. My mother wants Archway Cookies; Teegan wanted that chicken.
I still don't know how she did it. After setting the chicken to drain, I turned away for two seconds, and when I turned back there was Teegan standing on the floor holding the chicken--the raw chicken, MY raw chicken-- by the wing.
The following thoughts flashed through my head in the microsecond of realization that occurred before I reacted to this sight: if Teegan gets away with the chicken she will take it under the table--from whence I won't be able to get it back without getting bitten -- and eat it. Which will make a huge, disgusting mess. If Teegan eats the chicken she will then likely get really sick, making an even bigger, more disgusting mess. I must get the chicken back!
I knew I had to keep my hands clear of her teeth: this was a prey object, which she had hunted and caught fair and square and she was prepared to defend it.
Lightning-fast, I reached down and grabbed the chicken by the leg, instigating what remains to this day the strangest tug-of-war in which I have ever engaged. Predictably, Teegan did not let go of the chicken. She dug in as best she could on the kitchen floor: this was a battle to the death!
...ever played tug-of-war with a raw chicken?
Teegan had the advantage: her teeth had a firm grip on the chicken and all she had to do was pull. Meanwhile, I was forced to use my hands--including my supposedly evolutionarily advanced opposable thumbs--to try to maintain a grip on my slippery chicken leg. And I was laughing--how could I not as I tried to hang onto a raw chicken that my dog had decided was hers?
Finally I realized that this had to end before I slipped and Teegan got away with her prize. In a last, desperate measure, I stuck my whole arm into the chicken's empty body cavity and pulled up with all my might.
And my 40-pound Springer Spaniel came right with it, gripping that wing with barracuda-like determination. After a moment suspended by the chicken, she realized that I wasn't giving in: grudgingly, she let go and dropped to the floor.
Calmly, I washed the chicken very thoroughly again, patted it dry, and set it to marinade in the cider-brine described in the recipe. It was very tender when cooked: whether it was the marinade, or the extra tugging, we will never know. But here's the recipe:
http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/cider-roasted-chicken-10000000701063/
