I should have known, as soon as I hit “publish” on my pumpkin soup post last week, that my sweet, sepia-colored picture of Autumn domestic bliss would come back to bite me. And it did the very next day as soon as we sat down to eat the damn soup. Dinner was chaos from beginning to end, with my boys getting up and running around the kitchen at regular intervals, while giggling hysterically and relentlessly asking for more baguette. Which was hopeless since they gobbled it down before supper even started. “Supper” - I feel silly writing this deliciously old-fashioned word, which would lead one to believe that meals at my house are this peaceful, almost religious ritual held daily in complete silence under the grandfather clock. I meant to be fancy and avoid writing “dinner” twice, but that meal last Friday evening was everything you would expect “supper” NOT to be. The boys refusing to sit still on their chairs and complaining about being reduced to eating whole wheat bread with walnuts; the teenagers bickering endlessly about the diverging opinions they have of a teacher they have in common. My husband sighing and trying to rush the whole affair by bypassing the Friday night ice cream, thus creating more chaos and recriminations, and making everything take even longer. And, worst of all, everybody claiming that my soup was “only OK”, mere hours after I imprudently wrote, on this blog, that it was requested every October with innocent fervor. Suffice it to say that before ice cream ended up being served -as it was always going to be, - I was ready to call it a day and had to take refuge in my bedroom for a few minutes before facing the next dreaded phase, aka the pre-weekend bedtime for over-excited boys under the age of ten. To offer a bit of perspective, it has to be said that the Friday night fiasco came on the wheels of a perfectly crazy afternoon. It all started as a perfect October vignette, with me helping decorate my boys’ elementary school for Halloween, and ended with the same me madly dashing through the streets of Paris on my creaky Vélib’ rental bike to make it in time to pick up my seven-year old son from his swimming class. In between the two pictures, there was an unforeseen union march on the boulevard Montparnasse, and the ensuing shutdown of the whole neighborhood made it impossible to take the subway, the bus, or any other means of transportation, closing off most of the Vélib’ and taxi routes. All of this meant that after my crazy Vélib’ race through the most unlikely streets, it also took me almost an hour to walk home with my tired, hungry son who of course needed to use the bathroom urgently. And that we ended up eating my glorious soup at the time children would normally be getting ready to go to sleep. Let’s just say that my soup was doomed before I even started making it.
What does any of this have to do with grapes, will you ask me? Not to mention this weird HALF-grape business? Well, absolutely everything. For the good students around here who listen, a couple of weeks ago, as I was reeling from the September madness, I mentioned this French saying, “mi-figue, mi-raisin” – half-fig, half-grape, - which we use to describe anything that is only so-so, or, to be more honest, overall quite unsatisfactory. In that post, I dealt with the fig part of the phrase. But the grape section was obviously missing. Which is where my Friday afternoon from hell comes in. October, it turns out, definitely did not erase September’s travails, and might have even heightened some of them – I’m thinking about the unhealthy academic pressure school seems to be putting on my 15-year-old son, among other things. And the way the French educational system does not seem to have reformed itself much since I went through it and learned to believe that no matter how hard I worked, nothing I did was ever good enough. But I digress. Let’s just say the past few weeks have been stressful, and that our upcoming two-week break will be most welcome, particularly as it involves a trip back to our beloved New York, in time for Halloween. And that in times like this that are only “mi-figue, mi-raisin”, you absolutely need this perfect Fall recipe by Colu Henry, once again courtesy of the New York Times. In addition to be perfect and delicious, this dish is also remarkably simple to make. You basically just dump some chicken thighs on a baking sheet, along with some grapes and halved shallots. A little drizzle of olive oil, and into the oven it goes. Voilà. In the meantime, enjoy your tea, or your glass of wine, and if you don’t need to help anybody with homework or their bath, savor every minute of it.
Sheet Pan Chicken with Shallots and Grapes
INGREDIENTS
Yield:4 to 6 servings
2½ to 3 pounds (1 to 1.5 kg) bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs, patted dry
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 tablespoon za’atar (optional)
Kosher salt and black pepper
6 medium to large shallots, peeled and quartered root to stem
8 ounces/about 250 grams seedless red or green grapes, or a combination.
4 to 5 thyme sprigs, plus 2 teaspoons finely chopped thyme
Flaky sea salt, for serving
PREPARATION
1. Step 1
Heat oven to 425 °F/220 ° C. In a large bowl, toss together the chicken with 1 tablespoon olive oil, garlic and za’atar, if using. Season well with salt and pepper. Place the shallots and the grapes on the sheet pan and gently toss with the remaining olive oil and season well with salt.
2. Step 2
Nestle the chicken skin-side up in between the shallots and grapes and lay the thyme sprigs on top of the mixture. Roast for 25 to 30 minutes until the chicken is cooked through and the shallots and grapes at the edges of the pan begin to soften and caramelize.
3. Step 3
Turn the oven to broil and move the oven rack to sit right below it. Remove and discard the thyme sprigs and broil the chicken for 1 to 2 minutes until the skin of the chicken is crispy and golden. Scatter with chopped thyme and season with flaky salt.
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