Ali's Kitchen: Spice-Roasted Cornish Hens with [abridged] Spring Garlic Jus... another really long post

This evening's recipe includes one of my favorite ingredients: Cornish hens. I love to cook them. It's like cooking a less-intimidating version of a real hen. Our recipe also calls for over ten herbs and spices - another plus in my book. This meal goes well with a simple green salad and some unadorned Israeli couscous (which is not, technically couscous, but pasta).

Here's the ingredient list for our main dish, courtesy of the New York Times:

1 tablespoon thyme leaves
1 tablespoon rosemary leaves
1 tablespoon cumin seeds
1 bird’s eye chili pepper, chopped (optional)
1 teaspoon mustard seeds
1 teaspoon fenugreek seeds
1 teaspoon fennel seeds
1 teaspoon turmeric
1 teaspoon mild curry powder
1/2 teaspoon coriander seeds
1/2 teaspoon salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 Cornish hens (about 1 1/2 pounds each), halved
1 cup olive oil
3 spring garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 small spring onions or scallions, finely chopped
2/3 cup dry white wine
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce.

'Member me mentioning that I LOVE SPICES?


From saffron to lavender to coriander to plain old poultry seasoning mix, it's in my cupboard. You know what's not in there? Fenugreek. You know the only time I've ever even HEARD of fenugreek? Reading new moms blogging about breastfeeding. But I had never, ever come across a recipe that called for fenugreek until the New York Times ran ours. I was not able to find any fenugreek seeds in a timely manner, so our recipe will proceed without them. Ditto with the bird's eye chili pepper (whatever that is), although it's optional anyhow. My other difference from the paper's recipe: We have two whole hens already frozen (now thawed), so I will be doing the splitting myself, Blog help me.

Let's start with the first sentence of the recipe itself:

1. In a spice grinder,

Okay. In a what, now? What makes you think I have a spice grinder? Ironically, this recipe was published in the same NYT Dining & Wine section as THIS article on ridiculous ingredients or instructions that stop some cooks from using a recipe altogether. Is this irony intentional, or am I merely a twenty-something in a small apartment, and therefore not the target of the NYT Dining & Wine folk? Because at this point, we're supposed to have fenugreek AND a spice grinder. Oh well. Moving on... I'm going to use a coffee grinder, and assume that that will work just fine.



Here's where your experience may differ: You may find that your coffee grinder is NOT coated with something your husband ground up in it about a year ago, and NEVER CLEANED OUT. You may have noticed this earlier had you not gotten so lazy about using freshly ground coffee beans. Lose 20 minutes cleaning (above pic obviously taken afterward), then wondering if you will electrocute yourself when you plug it in and try to run it, because... it's electric? And you just cleaned it with water? Dry as thoroughly as you can (also, you are now out of paper towels and have gone to Q-Tips to get into the crevices), but obsess about this electrocution business, because there's still a little condensation on the cap of the grinder.
So, the coffee grinder is clean AFTER 20 MINUTES, and the herbs/spices are assembled. We're coming up to my favorite part of this recipe: No chopping (or, light chopping; some chopping for onions later). I doubled the herbs/spices after I accidentally put in a tablespoon of mustard seeds instead of a teaspoon. You know I like over-seasoning things anyway, so, WIN! Now, put the mixture of herbs in the coffee grinder, or whatever you're using, plug it in hoping that the soles of your flip-flops are rubber, and grind -




Success! You are not dead or in cardiac arrest from electrocution, and you have a "coarse powder" of herbs and spices! More WIN!

SO. Hen-splitting time. It's time to deal with the fact that this used to be a relatively cute, fluffy animal, and split the ribcages from front to back. Also, big knives + slippery chicken skin = heightened risk of chopped fingertips. Gah. (Also, I'm pretty sure this is not the knife I'm supposed to use.) Here we go:




Yet MORE win! No fingertips missing, and you now have four halves of Cornish hen! Just so you know, the most unsettling part is the sound of cracking bones. Like a... well, like a set of tiny cracking ribcages, really.

Rub the spice mixture on the hen halves, then pour on olive oil, "turning to coat." I'm using 1/2 a cup instead of a full cup, as that's all that's left in my kitchen! Unsurprisingly, it is more than enough to coat the birdies. Now cover up, pop in the fridge, and... do something else for three or four hours. My personal choice is to take a shower. It's almost 100 degrees out today, and I left the apartment for all of ten minutes, leaving me pretty much drenched. This is one of the few days in my personal experience that can be unequivocally described as "oppressively hot."

Of course, showering only takes 10 minutes, 30 if you count makeup and hairdrying as part and parcel of a "shower." So... You put the hens in the fridge to marinate at 3:00. What with one thing and another, an hour and a half passed [name that awesome book/movie (although this line says "three years" instead of "an hour and a half," and isn't in the movie)]. Now you still have at least another hour and half to go. Why don't we go ahead and make the basting sauce a little early? Why not, right? Because the onions might become soggy in the soy sauce, you say? Well, forget you; they'll get soggy when they roast. So there. Stop being so difficult.

I could not find spring garlic, which is essentially garlic greens, according to Whole Foods' website. I will be using just a bit of garlic powder, hoping that will make up for the difference. Whatever. Here's a picture of an allium plant from the park near me to distract you: (Allium is the onion and garlic genus.)


I DO have scallions. This recipe only calls for two, so make sure to use the rest of the bunch in a salad for later: A wasted scallion is a tragedy.

So here we have our basting sauce:




I have a sneaking suspiscion that I was supposed to chop the scallions more finely, but, again, whatever. (Can you tell that heat makes me apathetic and lethargic?) However, I am happy to report that, while back in the kitchen slicing the scallions, my olfactory senses played host to a wonderful aroma of Indian/Moroccan/Italian spices. Heavenly.


Time to take the hens out of the fridge and pre-heat the oven! The actual cooking won't take too long, so you may want to go ahead and cook your couscous now (it will stay hot) if you're like me and can't so much "multi-task" as "burn everything." Here we go!



I don't know about Courtney's neck of the woods, but here in NYC, a HUGE downpour of atmosphere-cooling rain just started right on cue with my cranking up the oven to 400 degrees. Merciful. So, the oven is heating and the hens are waiting...




As you can see, our sous-chef takes exception to the use of so many non-feline-friendly spices, rendering him ineligible to sample this dish. He is not shy of demonstrating his displeasure:



While the hens are cooking, you shouldn't ignore any strange burning smells. It may be the bottom layer of your couscous burning. Because you can't cook rice-like dishes without burning them, as previously stated, about 85% of the time.


After 25 minutes (we're cooking some chicken breasts along with the hens, for eatin' later this week) (also, our hens are slightly larger than the recipe calls for) of cooking the hens in the top third of the oven, start basting! Before you baste for the first time, eyeball the juices coming out of the hens to see if they're starting to turn clear-ish. They ought to, by this point. If you're super lucky, you may even burn your thumb while cutting into the crease between the thigh and the body to check the juices, just like ME! Twice! (For real. 400 degree steel on the skin? OUCH.)


The paper's recipe calls for two bastings during a seven minute period, but, again, just eyeball it. When it looks done, take the hen out of the oven and let it sit for about 10 minutes. Mine are taking a little longer, by that timing, probably because of the size and extra meat in the stove. Correction: Make that a LOT longer. So far, I put the hens and chicken breasts (in different pans) in for 25 minutes; then 5 minutes. Then I took the chicken breasts out, mostly done. I set the timer for another 5 minutes. I just checked them again. Still not done. This leads me to conclude that Cornish Hen Is Tricky. Courtney will be familiar with this particular theorem, as she witnessed a similar timing debacle on Easter weekend. I'm beginning to suspect that my oven runs cooler than it purports to... and that it's a good thing that Kenny ordered Chinese food for himself tonight. So, we're waiting... we're waiting...




We're filing our nails... we're waiting...

And, FINALLY, WE'RE DONE!


(I think a good way to eyeball this is to let the spices and onions and stuff get nice and browned before you cut into the thigh to check the doneness for the first time.) (Also, I'd like to point out that the flash renders the change in color almost indecipherable. In real life, these are a nice, toasty brown.)


Let's dig in! Most important taste revelation: I'll admit that I was skeptic about a basting sauce that combined Worsterchire sauce and soy sauce. I mean, who does that??? Well, smart people, apparently, because it smells YUMMY. Which is fitting, this being the Yum Yum Cooking Club, and all.


All in all, I solidly recommend this recipe, if you have time and a patient cooking/dining partner! And a sous-chef who won't give you the stink eye when he's not allowed to sample.