{"id":52,"date":"2009-07-01T12:05:00","date_gmt":"2009-07-01T12:05:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.jamesramsden.com\/2009\/07\/01\/the-unbearable-wetness-of-sweating"},"modified":"2009-07-01T12:05:00","modified_gmt":"2009-07-01T12:05:00","slug":"the-unbearable-wetness-of-sweating","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.jamesramsden.com\/2009\/07\/01\/the-unbearable-wetness-of-sweating\/","title":{"rendered":"The unbearable wetness of sweating [pot-roast chicken]"},"content":{"rendered":"
It’s blinkingly hot outside. I’m up north for a week doing a cooking job at a rather wonderful 13th century house just south of Ripon, and while cranking out endless lemon polenta cakes (or ‘lemon placenta cake’ as one of my brother’s friends once called it when waitering for me) is just about bearable on a drizzly day, when the weather is like this it is not much fun. I want to be swimming in the river, or fishing, or, ideally, sitting with a book and a beer. Even sitting in the window writing this has given my forehead a light sheen – us northerners just aren’t built for the heat. I’m dreading my return to London and my stuffy bedroom. There it’s a toss up between the unbearable wetness of sweating and the excruciating noise that greets me when I open my window onto the Hackney Road. It’s like trying to get some kip on the hard shoulder of the M1. Industrial earplugs and an industrial fan are probably the only ways to get through this heat wave. But I’m not complaining. Last summer was utterly miserable, and I vowed never to complain about good weather again. Bring it on.<\/p>\n
Somewhat counter-intuitively, pot-roast chicken, as I discovered a couple of nights ago, is a better summer feed than your standard roast chicken, which is associated with root vegetables, bread sauce and a roaring fire. This pullet, juicy in its light broth and perky with the accompaniment of broad beans and peas, was just the ticket.<\/p>\n