Sunday roast chicken is not merely a meal—it is a ritual that anchors the week. While the world outside accelerates towards Monday, the kitchen becomes a sanctuary where time moves differently, where a whole chicken roasts slowly and the smell of thyme and butter fills every room.
The beauty of a roast chicken lies in its fundamental simplicity. A good bird, some aromatics, root vegetables, and heat. No marinades, no complicated techniques, no special equipment. Just patience and an understanding that some things cannot and should not be rushed.
I learned to roast chicken from my grandmother, who learned from hers. The method has not changed in generations because it does not need to. You stuff the cavity with lemon and garlic. You rub butter under the skin. You surround the bird with potatoes and carrots. You roast it until the skin is mahogany and the meat falls from the bone. This is cooking as inheritance.
The Perfect Bird
Size matters here. An 1.8-kilogram chicken serves four people generously, with enough left over for sandwiches the next day. Free-range is not just an ethical choice—these birds have better flavour, better texture, better fat that bastes the meat as it cooks.
The vegetables roast in the chicken's drippings, absorbing all that flavour while developing their own caramelised edges. Potatoes cut into chunks, carrots left whole if they are small, onions quartered. Everything goes into the same pan, everything emerges transformed.
Serve it at the table, the whole bird on a platter surrounded by vegetables. Let someone carve—there is something ceremonial about this act. Pour wine. Pass the salt. This is Sunday dinner, and it is perfect exactly as it has always been.
