Crispy Chicken — The Shabbat Table That Holds Everything We Don’t Say

Rebecca visited for the weekend — came out on the LIRR Friday afternoon with a bag of books and a bottle of wine and the particular energy Rebecca brings, which is intellectual and warm and slightly chaotic, like a very smart windstorm. She and Marvin sat in the living room and she read to him — read him Chekhov, one of the short stories, "Gooseberries," which is about happiness and whether we deserve it and whether knowing about suffering obligates us to be unhappy, which is a very Chekhov question and also a very Ruth-and-Rebecca question, though we've never framed it that way.

Marvin listened. I don't know how much he understood — the language of Chekhov requires a particular kind of attention, and Marvin's attention wanders now like a child in a museum — but he listened, and when Rebecca finished he said, "That was nice," and Rebecca said, "It's Chekhov, Pop," and Marvin said, "Well, Chekhov was nice," and Rebecca and I exchanged a look over his head that contained everything: love, grief, amusement, the specific absurdity of Marvin Feldman calling Chekhov "nice." He's not wrong. Chekhov was nice. He was also devastating. But nice is what Marvin has access to right now, and nice is sufficient.

I made Shabbat dinner for three — chicken, roasted potatoes, green beans, challah. Rebecca and I lit the candles together and said the blessings and sat down and ate and talked about everything except the thing we're both thinking about, which is: how many more Shabbat dinners will Marvin sit at this table? We don't say it. We eat the challah. We drink the wine. We talk about Chekhov and the grandchildren and whether kugel needs raisins (it does; Rebecca is wrong about this and I tell her so every time). The not-saying is its own kind of conversation. We are fluent in it.

Shabbat chicken has to do a lot of work in this house — it has to be the thing that says we are together and this matters without anyone having to say it out loud. This crispy chicken is the one I come back to every time, because the skin goes deeply golden and the meat stays tender and it fills the apartment with a smell that means Friday, that means us. When Rebecca is here, I make enough for leftovers, because she always takes a piece on the train home, wrapped in foil, which is its own kind of blessing.

Crispy Chicken

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 50 min | Total Time: 1 hr 5 min | Servings: 4–6

Ingredients

• 3 lbs bone-in, skin-on chicken pieces (thighs and drumsticks work best)
• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 teaspoon kosher salt
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• 1 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1 teaspoon smoked paprika
• 1/2 teaspoon onion powder
• 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
• 1/2 teaspoon dried rosemary, crumbled
• 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional)

Instructions

1. Preheat oven. Heat your oven to 425°F. Line a rimmed baking sheet with foil and place a wire rack on top, if you have one — it helps the skin crisp on all sides.
2. Dry the chicken. Pat the chicken pieces thoroughly dry with paper towels. This is the most important step for truly crispy skin; do not skip it.
3. Season. In a small bowl, combine the salt, pepper, garlic powder, smoked paprika, onion powder, thyme, rosemary, and cayenne if using. Rub the chicken all over with olive oil, then coat evenly with the spice mixture, getting under the skin where you can.
4. Arrange and roast. Place chicken pieces skin-side up on the rack or foil-lined pan. Roast at 425°F for 45–50 minutes, until the skin is deeply golden and crackling and an instant-read thermometer reads 165°F at the thickest part.
5. Rest before serving. Let the chicken rest 5 minutes before serving. The skin will stay crisp; the juices will settle. It is ready when it smells like Friday night.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 340 | Protein: 31g | Fat: 23g | Carbs: 1g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 420mg