Do what with this can of beer?!!?

On a bushcraft/rural cooking website, I read not so long ago, that a whole chicken can be cooked in a clay oven with an open can of beer inserted into it ... er ... rear opening, and being a chef of little talent but great aspirations, I thought I would give it a go.

Now, my kitchen in the UK is not a bush kitchen. It has an electric fan oven, not a clay oven, but I thought that would do.

I opened a can of cheap lager, drank about 1/4 of it, inserted the rest into the cavity in the chicken carcass and put it in the oven on a baking tin to catch the inevitable juices. Of course, having a beer can inserted into the chicken means that the bird has to stand on end, which looks a little weird, but hey ho.

The recommended cooking time for the chicken was about 115 minutes at 190°C, but I figured with a hefty heat conductor thrust into the bird, this could be considerably less.

90 minutes later, I had a juicy, well-cooked bird ready to be served, and I have to say that although this was a very cheap chicken, it was very moist and tasty. I would have posted a photo, but I'm afraid that there only a few bones left!

The juices collected in the baking tin made a fantastic gravy, just to top off the meal.

All in all, I consider this experiment to be a resounding success. The only adjustment I would make is to cover the chicken with tin foil for at least part of the cooking process, to keep in even more of the flavoured juices in. This would also negate the need for basting - probably.

Has anyone else tried this? If so, let me know your results.

I will try it again, possibly with a can of Guinness- that could be interesting - or a waste of Guinness.

Kenya Trip June 2009 - etc ...

Sunday 14th

It is a typical Sunday. It started with a call to prayer at 5.50am, then the preachers with loud, rasping voices testing their sound equipment, to make sure that even people on the North Pole can hear them, followed by interminable services of joyful but repetitive music, played badly on electric pianos and sung by choirs who, frankly, can't sing.

This morning, I set up a swing for the kids, strung up in the mango tree outside the front door, and that has kept them amused ever since, thank Goodness.

Liz's Aunt, who has at least one grown-up daughter and at least one grandchild, is 8 1/2 months pregnant and an epileptic. She is in hospital and this morning it was decided to carry out an emergency Caesarian Section. Liz has shot up to Malindi to be with her and I am left with the two kids, Ian (7), Natasha (almost 5) and niece Beonce (2 weeks older than Natasha). To add to the meleé, the boy from next door has come round to play with Ian.

And it is lunchtime.

Beonce doesn't speak any English, the boy next door doesn't either, and Natasha pretends not to understand when it suits her.

Ian, on the other hand is a little star. His English, although not perfect is very understandable and he also speaks a little French.

He is happy to act as interpretor and also tries to keep his little sister in check, although it will take a lot more than a seven year old for that task. Even her mother has difficulties with her; she is very defiant - er, Natasha, not Liz.

I can usually scare the boy next door into obedience - he is not used to a mzungu in close proximity, and if I stare at Beonce for too long, she may even burst into tears.

I think I have established that all the kids like eggs, so it will be eggy bread for lunch, coz I like it.

And the added annoyance factor is that the Safaricom connection keeps dropping. The service really isn't very good in these parts.

-oOo-

I have heard from Liz. A healthy baby boy was born by CS, but Aunt is still aout of it.

-oOo-

I am beginning to think about dinner and had a look in the freezer. We don't have a fridge so everything goes in the freezer and we switch it on and of so as not to freeze everything rock-hard. We forget sometimes. Just now is such a time and I have frozen milk in my cup of coffee.

But back to dinner. Bearing in mind I am feeding 4, including myself, and it would be nice if there wassomething left for Liz when she gets back, I can do frankfurters and pasta, sausages and pasta, chicken and pasta, pasta and pasta, etc. ... with a pasta sauce of fresh tomatoes and garlic. There are little packets of herbs and spices, but they are all labelled in Swahili, so I won't be using those.

Cooking a proper meal for 5 on a single-ring gas burner is a bit daunting, but I am sure I will manage ... somehow ... if I have to, although I am hoping that Liz will arrive before I have to contemplate it.

Update:

Liz's aunt died this afternoon after a successful Caesarian Section to deliver a baby boy. The baby is in the nursery and we do not know if it will survive.

I managed to feed the kids, stop them eating what I had prepared for Liz, get them washed and virtually ready for bed when Liz came home.

She and the kids are now asleep and I am winding down after a long, cold shower. There are Tuskers in the fridge and I am tempted to drink one, but somehow, it doesn't seem right.

My Dinner in the Bin

After arriving in South Africa, for about a month, I lived in a hotel not far from Jan Smuts Airport. Then another ex-pat asked if I would like to take his rented house over, as he was returning to the UK.

I jumped at the chance and moved in about a week before they left, to get a feel for the place - and act as unpaid babysitter.

Then I was on my own. I still hadn't got used to the 7.30 start at the office, or the altitude and heat - although it was winter, the daytime temperature could rise to 28°C.

But, I was out of the hotel, I was free to do what I wanted, eat what I wanted. And I wanted cassoulet. I had all the ingredients so I set about soaking the beans for 24 hours and preparing everything else I needed, ready for the big cook-up the following evening.

So, the following evening, I started to make the most delicious meal I had ever had when I was living in France (each to their own). Everything was on the stove and I was very pleased with myself. I had prepared enough for that evening, and also for the two street kids I was looking after at weekends. It would be a real treat for them, I hoped.

I sat in the lounge and waited for my meal to cook - and fell asleep.

Now, do you know that smell of burnt meat, I don't mean singed around the edges, not BBQ burnt, I mean fully burnt right through to a cinder?

That's what woke me up. I sprang into the kitchen through a brown fog, opened all the windows and the door to try to dispel the odour. My maid, who lived in the compound rushed in.

"Devit, Devit! Dey being burn! Fire!"

I calmed her down (she had been caught up in some riots in a township and was a little anxious at the smell of burning flesh), and eventually sent her back to her room.

I had fish fingers for dinner that night.

That was a Wednesday. The cassoulet and the pans I was using ended up in the dustbin.

On Friday evening, the boys got to the house soon after I arrived.

"Ag man! Devid, what is this smell?" This from two township kids who live in an area where the smoke from the burners hangs around for days. It must have been really bad.

They were not amused when I told them that it was their dinner.