Marilyn Schletzer
By Marilyn Schletzer
Video from YouTube
Spatchcock, spatchcock, spatchcock. It’s fun to say, though it doesn’t roll easily off the tongue, and it might impress some folks if you’re looking for opportunities to do that. By the way, if you haven’t encountered the word before and you’re beginning to think I had a little too much eggnog over the holidays, I assure you that I am of reasonably sound mind and body. Spatchcocking is the process of removing the backbone from a chicken. So there. And a spatchcocked chicken is the same as a butterflied chicken, but where’s the fun in THAT? Butterfly, butterfly, butterfly. Nope, no thrills there.
Even though I can confidently provide you with that information, I haven’t yet drummed up the nerve to ask my friendly neighborhood butcher to perform the task for me. We know one another by name, and I’ve asked him to do other meat-related tasks in the past, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to make that particular request. My butcher is a disarmingly attractive young fellow who always has a smile on his face, and he and I frequently chat if he has a minute to spare. But I’m nearly certain that if I were to ask him for the spatchcock treatment, I would get tongue-tied and end up saying something that would force me to change grocery stores so I would never have to face him again. It’s just not worth it.
The good news for today is that I don’t have to ask my butcher to do it because I have spatchcocked my own chicken! All by myself in the privacy of my own home! And, even better, no sutures were required during the operation! I must insert here that my knife skills — and I use that term VERY loosely — are really more like a series of defensive maneuvers. If I can manage to dice an entire onion without drawing blood from myself or anyone else in the immediate vicinity, I consider that a stellar day in the kitchen. My husband sharpens our knives regularly, but he does it with fear and trepidation in his heart because he knows we will all be in mortal danger until they’ve gotten just a little bit duller.
But back to spatchcocking! Now, I could tell you that it’s an easy-peasy process, accomplished in only a matter of minutes. Or I could tell you the truth and admit that the first time, I performed the surgery with the chicken UPSIDE DOWN. Yes, it’s true. You would think that removing the backbone from a chicken would be a clear indication that the bird should be lying on its breasts with its back up in preparation for the task, but you would be wrong. I assure you that it is just as simple to place the creature on its back and innocently and enthusiastically remove what I’m fairly certain is the sternum from between its breasts, which is precisely what I did. I then flipped birdie over and, as instructed, smashed it down until it was nice and flat. Done and done! Except that now my flattened bird was prominently displaying its back, and its breasts were flapping out to either side. Not to worry! It still roasted up like a chicken, tasted like a chicken, and made the house smell like chicken heaven.
AFTER
I should digress briefly to mention that my dear Dad attempted on several occasions to teach me how to roast a chicken when I was fifteen. It went in one ear and out the other, and at an alarming rate of speed. At that age, if it wasn’t about cute boys or sports, I could not generate a single iota of interest. So years later — okay, 20 years later, shut up — when I really WANTED to roast a chicken, I removed it from its plastic jacket, swooned when all those alarming innards came tumbling out (EWWWWWW!), and then proceeded to place it in the roasting pan; however, I honestly did not know which side was supposed to face up. I could spend the next ten minutes describing how I finally narrowed down the options, but suffice to say that it involved my lying on the floor with my breasts up to determine which direction my drumsticks and wings were facing. Not my most shining hour.
But let’s get back to spatchcocking! The second time I attempted it, I succeeded brilliantly — won’t be making that mistake again, no sir — and even treated myself to a victory lap around the kitchen to the ROCKY theme blaring in my head. It’s the little things, folks. And though that bad boy didn’t taste any better than the mis-spatchcocked one, it generated enough culinary pride in my bosom to last the rest of the week.
A quick note: Removing the backbone and smashing the birdie down will reduce your roasting time, so don’t make the second mistake I did and burn the poor thing beyond recognition, That’s right, I spatchcocked the wrong part and then burnt the whole shebang to a crisp. Learn from my mistakes, people, and don’t let this happen to you. (Insert here a big hug around the neck to my husband, who not only ate Mistake #1 but insisted that I return to the scene of the tragedy and try, try again. I have neither the room here nor the time to recount all the culinary calamities he has witnessed. And eaten. And smiled, God bless his heart.)
So if you’re bored with all those post-holiday salads and fish fillets, take a walk on the wild and feathered side and try spatchcocking. Or if you’re feeling particularly brave, ask your butcher to do it. Cluck cluck, and good luck!
Editorial Note
Marilyn, Congratulations on an interesting article about something I’ll never try. None-the-less, look what I found on YouTube.
Video: How to Spatchcock a Chicken
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