Musings from the Green Mountain State
Musings from the Green Mountain State
Giving thanks to my local grocery store, my ex, and the roasted grape and radicchio salad I made
While all the birds migrated south for the winter, we drove north and tested the limits of my Mini Cooper. We filled my car to the brim with bags and boxes and wedged our coats and odds and ends in all the open nooks and crannies we could find. With the dry-cleaning bag kissing the sun and moon roof alike, we left the arm of Massachusetts and took off for Vermont—well, Connecticut first, and then New York, and then Washington D.C., and then Connecticut again. Definitely a more confusing migratory pattern than the birds, not to mention counterintuitive and not the most economical route. But we had two weeks to kill, winter clothes to retrieve from our storage unit, friends to visit, runners to cheer on in the New York City Marathon, and a wedding to attend.
I hadn’t stepped foot in the Green Mountain State since I graduated from the University of Vermont back in the winter of 2019. Nearly five years later, I decided to return to live for a winter in the Mad River Valley area, surrounded by more cows, trees, and ski resorts than people and to have my thoughts echo loudly in my brain as the snow would twist down from the sky to create turrets of white.
When Brooks and I arrived, it was a little after 4:00 p.m.—and darkness had already descended. The towns of Warren and Waitsfield barely even whispered. We passed a few mucked-up Subarus and drove past houses that were abandoned, either just for a season or for a lifetime. Up the winding back roads and over the null, our belongings, along with our bodies, shuffled and bumped with each divot we drove over and twist we turned ‘round until we arrived at the base of Sugarbush.
The grass in the valley and on the peaks of the mountain was still a vibrant green. Having totted up all our belongings like two pack mules, we descended the stairs and ventured back into town to gather provisions. The local Shaw’s produce shelves were nearly empty; the few wilted lettuces and drooping parsley stems with yellow leaves made me swallow hard. The floors were grim; the cracks of the tiling were filled with compacted mud from the many farmers’ boots that had likely trod in and out of there day after day. But the people were friendly—gosh, I forgot how friendly and talkative strangers can be outside the Tri-State Area.
To fulfill all our grocery needs, we needed to make another stop. The second we strolled into the local supermarket, Mehuron’s, I let out a sigh of relief. Farm fresh produce, local meats and jams, and specialty items abound—like imported Japanese fish sauce aged in whiskey barrels and fermented hot sauces—greeted us from the shelves. Wood signs painted with rounded letters—“frozen”, “dairy and eggs”, “canned goods”—hung from the low-pitched ceilings.
The carefully crafted bounty to be found inside the small walls and narrow aisles of this local grocery store, each item appearing to be specially chosen to hold a spot on the shelves, made my little culinary-inclined heart pitter-patter. I forgot how good this little local gem was. Right then and there, I decided we would shop nowhere else, unless absolutely necessary.
Though our bags were still sitting unpacked in the foyer, Brooks and I were already starting to think about the real pressing matter at hand as we perused the shelves: Thanksgiving. Already, my wheels were spinning as to which local cheese we would pick up for the pre-Thanksgiving charcuterie board we were planning to assemble.
It was never stated in official terms (perhaps we even volunteered), but we were hosting Thanksgiving this year. My immediate family would be coming up to Vermont, to my dad’s place where we were so graciously being allowed to stay for the few winter months; so, as the two individuals holding down the fort in the place our feast would take place, we would thus be leading the charge and giving the marching orders on the menu and doing the bulk of the grocery shopping.
My first Thanksgiving “hosting”. I was thrilled!
We would order a local bird at Mehuron’s, hit up the Trader Joe’s in Cape Cod on our way back from the memorial we were due to attend a few days out, and then fill in any odds and ends and specialty items back at Mehuron’s. The plan was set; the menu was being drafted—and it would all be enjoyed at the base of one of Vermont’s family-loved ski resorts.
After returning from Cape Cod with our last haul of personal items and several bags of Thanksgiving groceries, we finally settled in. Brooks had heard back from a job inquiry, and I was puttering away with my online work. We were just about settled in. And then it started to fall.
The last time I recall seeing snow dust the surface of the earth before Thanksgiving was when I was a wee elementary school gal. Seeing flakes fall in November this year made me all warm and fuzzy inside and inch closer to the gas fireplace in search of warmth.
While we sliced and baked, shopped and organized, cleaned and wrote, entertained and slept, woke up earlier than usual and retired before the clock hit double digits, the snow continued to descend from the sky. Inch by inch, day by day, the slopes outside our window began to look less and less like Seurat paintings, with dots of white and green, and more like an evenly coated canvas of white.
On Thanksgiving Eve, while we sat around nibbling on and discussing how delicious the local cheeses were on the charcuterie board I made, the snow danced against the windowpanes. While I roasted my first nearly 14 lb. turkey, it flurried outside. As we focused on our new communal full-time job of eating Thanksgiving leftovers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, to ensure no morsel of our overly abundant feast went to waste, more snow fell.
As I write these words, we’ve just gained roughly nine more inches of snow over the last couple of days (and more, thanks to the snowmakers on the mountain). Mounds of white, trails of white, and treetops of white are now framed by each of the tall, paned windows.
The winter wonderland is slowly taking form. And as it gets colder up here in these mountains, I’ve settled into the kitchen and focused my efforts on making comforting, easy meals: roasted meats, stews, soups, hearty pastas.
As much as I love Thanksgiving for all that the roasting and baking yields and for the chance to savor the main meal and then that first plate or two of leftovers, I secretly rejoice when the last morsel of turkey and pie is eaten, and I can once more concoct a meal of my choosing. This year, that meal was a roasted chicken with a red wine au jus, served with a side of basmati rice and a roasted grape and radicchio salad. Needless to say, it was radicchio-usly good!
It all started with me feeling slightly PMS-y on the couch Sunday afternoon. Having done a bit of yoga and moping, journaling and pouting, I picked up a notepad and pen and set out to plan out our meals for the week and make a grocery list accordingly. I knew I wanted a roasted chicken and then took to the saved folder in my Instagram to look at all the meal inspiration and recipes I save with the intention of making them but never do.
On Monday, we would have a roasted chicken. No local bird graced the shelves of Mehuron’s, just your run-of-the-mill chicken, so I made due. I had a few stalks of celery and a few measly carrots left over from Thanksgiving prep that needed to be used, so I added those to the bottom of a large eight-quart All-Clad Rondeau pan1 for the chicken to rest on.
After rinsing the chicken’s cavity and exterior, I patted her dry and placed her atop the orange and green. Pads of butter were placed under the skin; a bundle of thyme and one lemon, halved, were stuffed into the cavity; olive oil, salt, and pepper were rubbed into every crevice until the bird was glistening. Into an oven the chicken went at 400°F, for roughly two hours, until golden and the legs could be pulled away and off of the body without any resistance.2
Growing up, one of my childhood favorites was my mom’s chicken and rice (“That’s nice!” we would shout with a smile). The pairing of the chicken thighs with the au jus-infused, crispy rice and peas is so comforting, so simple, so delicious. Then, when I was dating my (now ex) boyfriend at the time, I was introduced to proper Jewish chicken (and, of course, brisket). Thanks to my ex, and his family, I picked up a lot of roasting tips during those six years we were together.
I remember the taste of his aunt’s roasted chicken, his mother’s various roasted chicken dishes, and, most notably, the roasted chicken his father made for us in our new apartment. Though his father, Dan, was not Jewish (he was raised Roman Catholic like both of my parents), I like to imagine that he absorbed some of the Jewish cooking tips and tricks during the time he was married to my ex’s mother.
I’ll never forget that chicken. Its juicy, tender, buttery white meat had us all licking our lips as we sat crammed around the small Ikea table in our kitchen. The skin crackled as we bit into it. Our mouths were all curled up in greasy smiles between bites. Silence covered the table, only interrupted by whispers of “delicious”.
When I asked Dan what his secret was, he shared the secret of all great chefs: butter and salt. And a lot of it. That and the type of bird itself. “I only get the Trader Joe’s Organic Free Range Whole Chicken.” Quality ingredients and simplicity. That was the secret. Set the oven to 425°F and roast for two hours: that was the “recipe”.
Up to that point, I had enjoyed a fair number and variety of roasted chickens and seen their various preparations from start to finish. I watched my mother make her Italian-style roasted chicken many times, and, growing up a devout viewer of the Food Network throughout my formative elementary, middle, and high school years, I watched many competing culinary personalities roast their bird their way. But ever since I tasted Dan’s chicken, I have made my chicken the same ever since, with only slight modifications in temperature and the addition of a few ingredients here and there. It always hits the spot, even when I can’t get the trademark Trader Joe’s bird.
Honestly, I’ve rarely—if ever!—met a roasted chicken dish I didn’t like. Aside from Dan’s simple roasted chicken, one of my favorite roasted chicken dishes to this day—one that was new to me at the time, that I loved at first bite, whose accompanying flavors were unlike anything I had ever tasted before—is the roasted chicken thighs with onions, grapes, and olives that my ex made for me. (Good chicken cookers run in the family, I guess.)
The recipe was one his mother loved; one she had come across in one of her beloved recipe books that quickly became a family favorite. The sweetness of the grapes and the saltiness of the olives are married along with the unctuous chicken fat, tender dark meat, and crispy skin. I will never forget my first bite; I felt like Remy in Ratatouille when he tasted the strawberry and cheese combo for the first time. That chicken dish was the first of many delicious meals my ex made me, and it’s one that still lives in my heart to this day. So, thank you, Jake, and family.
Standing in Mehuron’s, grocery list in hand, I made the executive decision at that moment to go off list. I added red grapes to my cart and reached for the radicchio that I had mentally made a note of during our first trip there.
Back at our chalet, while my chicken was in the oven, I sliced up a shallot, washed my grapes, and coupled them on a small baking sheet tossed with some olive oil and salt. Into the oven they went, to keep my chicken company. Inspired by the flavors of that roasted chicken, grapes, and olives dish, I set out to make a meal reminiscent of those flavors but one that wouldn’t require me to add the grapes into the same roasting pan as the chicken, since I planned to use the meat again for Tuesday’s dinner and thus needed the chicken to retain a neutral flavor profile.
With that inspiration in mind, I played around. I sliced up the radicchio. I added some parsley that was already washed, dried, and in the fridge—another slightly bitter component to keep the radicchio company and add some brightness, both in flavor and color. The roasted shallots and grapes would not be added into the rice as I initially envisioned but to this salad I was assembling, to bring a sweetness and softer texture to complement the crunch of the leaves. And then for the dressing: olive oil for emulsion and depth; some apple cider vinegar and champagne vinegar for tartness, sweetness, and acidity; some honey for a floral and rounder sweet note to play off the bitter base of the salad; some whole-grain, old-style mustard for a bit of pop and flavor; and salt to draw out, highlight, and marry the flavors all together.
The other sides were a no-brainer. There would be the roasted carrots and celery, which would absorb all the butter and schmaltz in the cooking process, and I would make rice, both for the ease and necessity to have it prepped for Tuesday’s chicken and rice soup and the nostalgia aspect that would nod to my mom’s chicken and rice.
With my chicken done and resting, my rice waiting to be spooned, and my salad near completion, I turned to the au jus. On the stove, I added in the last bit of chicken broth that needed to be used in the fridge and brought the liquid to a boil before turning it again to a simmer. Thanks to Brooks, who re-reminded me of the open bottle of red wine and suggested I add some in, a red wine-infused au just was born. (Of course! Red wine would complement the notes of the salad perfectly!)
After cooking off the wine and letting all the flavors simmer together, it was time to assemble our plates.
The chicken was way juicer than expected. That bird was packing a thick layer of fat: a self-basting coat that kept it moist as it cooked. The red wine drippings were rich and buttery and dynamic, and they soaked into the rice to give it a slightly sweet, salty, and all-around lovely umami flavor. And the salad! Let’s get to the salad…
It was still slightly bitter. The dressing was still not as sweet as it needed to be to offset the radicchio, and the grapes needed to be cut in half to allow for more sweet surface area and better dispersion in the salad. But oh, man, those roasted grapes! Everything in one bite was just divine and still balanced well enough. As I had suspected, it was a textbook cozy, yet fresh, and delicious post-Thanksgiving meal.
If you’d like to give the salad a try, I’ve included the “recipe” below with some modifications based on tweaks I would apply in the next remake based on my initial critique of the flavors above. Let me know if you make it and what your thoughts are.
Bon appetite!
Roasted Grape and Radicchio Salad
Ingredients / Prep:
1 radicchio, about the size of a large fist, cut into ~ ½” to 1” thick ribbons
2 handfuls (roughly 2 cups) of red grapes, sliced in half lengthwise
1 shallot, cut in half lengthwise, then crosswise into thick slices
A handful of parsley, leaves plucked
Olive oil
Apple cider vinegar
Champagne vinegar
Honey
Whole grain, old-style mustard (I used the Maille brand)
Sea salt
Kitchen Tools:
Salad bowl (twice the size you think you need)
Tongs
Baking tray
Aluminum foil
Small Ball® jar (8 oz.)
Measuring spoons (½ and 1 teaspoon) (optional)
Directions / Helpful Asides:
Set oven to 400°F. (In retrospect, I think 425°F would be best, but I was roasting a chicken at the lower temp and just worked with what was already set.)
Line a baking tray with aluminum foil and add the halved grapes and shallots to the tray. Drizzle with olive oil and season with a pinch of salt. Toss to coat; roast until grapes are pruned and slightly caramelized (~30 minutes at 400°F, likely sooner at a higher temp and/or with the grapes halved; so, keep an eye on them).
While the grapes and shallots are roasting, do your salad prep. Wash the parsley and radicchio; spin in a salad spinner to dry (optional) or pat dry. (Dry = better dressing adherence!)
In a bowl (larger than you think you need—that’s the key to a well-tossed, evenly coated salad!), add in the shredded radicchio and pinched parsley leaves.
Once your grapes and shallots are roasted, let them cool (until about body temp to the touch, yet with the oil still slick in the pan) and then add on top of the almost-assembled salad—oil and all!
In the small Ball® jar (or a glass mason jar), you’re looking to achieve a 2:1 ratio between the oil and two vinegars. Add in equal parts apple cider vinegar and champagne vinegar until the total vinegar amount is about one-fourth of the way up the jar. Next, add in your olive oil until the entire liquid amount (vinegar and oil together) rises just shy of the jar’s halfway point. Next, add about ½ teaspoon of whole-grain mustard and 1 teaspoon of honey. (I usually eyeball these measurements, but use the measuring spoons if you want, to give you a sense of these measurements.) Season with a pinch of salt. Close the lid (firmly!) and shake until emulsified.
Taste to adjust. (You’re looking for a balance of acidity with a bit of sweetness—but not too much sweetness, as you still want the bitterness of the radicchio to come through.) If you make any adjustments (which you should, don’t be shy!), make sure you shake once more to incorporate and taste again.
Drizzle the dressing over salad a little at a time and toss to coat. Taste, add more dressing, and toss to your liking. (You likely won’t use all the dressing you made for the salad, and that’s okay. Save it in the fridge for another salad on a rainy day.)
Serve to accompany a delicious roasted chicken and rice, and enjoy!
Though I had a roasting pan and rack, I didn’t feel like taking it out and cleaning it…. Plus, I wanted the ease of reducing the au jus on the stove in the same vessel it already formed in during the roasting process.
When roasting at this higher temperature for approximately two hours, the internal temp reaches well over 165°F. Even though you may fear this method will result in a dry chicken, rest assured that all that fat will render out beautifully and thus produce a succulent bird with crispy skin. Also, note: Using a meat thermometer gives me the confidence to cook any meat, poultry, seafood, etc. It makes cooking so stress-and-guess-free; I highly suggest investing in one. I got mine on Amazon for around $20.00; so long as you set it up correctly, it is a near-foolproof tool.
This made me want to make videos of you cooking recipes for strangers we invite over to an Airbnb for dinner + wine to hear their craziest stories lol (ie, the piece was a success)
Marge, if you do not put a cookbook out one day I don’t know what I will do with myself