I was hands-on in the kitchen from a young age. Still, even by my early 20s, I hadn’t mastered some of the basics. So I can distinctly remember my first successful roast chicken. It was golden, glorious and all thanks to Ina Garten. Her Perfect Roast Chicken recipe has been my go-to ever since, and it has never let me down.
Prior to watching Ina make the classic dish on her debut cooking show, Barefoot Contessa, in 2003, my attempts at making roast chicken included blunders such as bathing the bird (yes, with soap) and producing a chicken that managed to have both charred skin and raw insides.
Maybe it was Ina’s calm voice or just the way she made every step seem so simple that gave me the courage to give it another go. Either way, I’m glad I did, because the outcome is mouthwatering—think crispy skin and moist meat that falls off the bone. Plus, in her words, “Roast chicken’s just the best kind of comfort food, and the good news is, it can be a really simple meal or it can be a really elegant one”—making it as ideal for a weeknight dinner as it is a meal fit for guests.
Within the first few minutes of watching that episode, I realized I had been getting off on the wrong foot. Ina noted to give the chicken a quick rinse, then pat the skin dry to help the butter and seasonings stick—which, in retrospect, makes complete sense. Though I’ll note that rinsing chicken is no longer recommended and a simple pat-down with a paper towel is all that’s needed.
From there, it’s all about salting the cavity and stuffing it with a quartered lemon, a handful of fresh herbs and an entire head of garlic—skins and all—before treating the exterior to a heavy slathering of butter and a generous sprinkling of salt and pepper.
Since you then place the prepped chicken on a bed of vegetables, this means your main and side dishes cook all in one pan. This also allows the vegetables to act as a sort of edible roasting rack (hooray for saving time and dirtying fewer dishes).
I can’t remember the exact temperature my oven was set to when I pulled out my blackened birds, but Ina sets her oven to 450°F. She says the high temperature is key to achieving crispy skin, a method I can vouch for. Incidentally, it was the moment I saw Ina’s delectably crisp roast chicken emerge from her envy-inducing Viking oven, through the screen of my small, yet clunky CRT television set, that I knew her recipe was going to be a keeper. And I was right—from my first to my many subsequent re-creations of her recipe, it is faithfully golden, shimmering and always deserving of marvel.
My learning journey didn’t end there. I fervently jotted down notes (I didn’t own a copy of her first book, The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook) as she explained to check for doneness by cutting between the breast and thigh and watching for clear juices; to let the chicken rest under an aluminum foil tent for at least 20 minutes, allowing the juices to “run back into the meat”; and how to expertly carve it the way her friend—who had learned firsthand from Julia Child—had taught her.
By the end of my first go at her recipe, I was proudly staring back at a platter of perfectly portioned chicken and tender vegetables (minus the fennel, since I didn’t quite know what it was at that time, much less where to buy it). But that’s the beauty of her recipe: you can easily make it your own, switching out the herbs, spices and vegetables for those your family likes best or that you already have on hand.
As delicious as Ina’s roasted chicken was the very first time, and has been every time since, what really resonated with me was the way she presented something so simple as being an act of love—after all, she was making it (along with roasted garlic potatoes and tiramisu) for her beloved husband, Jeffrey, and her to enjoy together.
So even though it may be “just a chicken,” each time I serve it to my family, it represents the joy I feel in preparing and presenting a home-cooked meal to my loved ones. And also that it is entirely possible to succeed at things that you may have written off as doomed pursuits. I don’t exactly tell my children this when I put the platter on the table—though, now that I think of it, I probably should.
