How To
The Non-Expert: Electors and Chickens
Experts answer what they know. The Non-Expert answers anything. This week ROSECRANS BALDWIN explains exactly how the electoral college works, with a small fable for example, and offers a roast chicken recipe for a guy who’s all thumbs in the kitchen.
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- First Scary Movies (Of Recent Note)
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Also by Rosecrans Baldwin
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- The Non-Expert: Term Paper (June 3, 2005)
- The Non-Expert: 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover (May 27, 2005)
- The Non-Expert: Gypsy Cabs (May 20, 2005)
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* * *
Every so often we dump the mailbag out on our receptionist’s desk and tip back our hats—alright, so we go through our email boxes and dive into a pile of Non-Expert requests. Here are a few recent questions and their responses:
Question: How does the electoral college work? —Ken G.
Answer: Good question, because at last count, there were six people in the country who could give you a correct answer. American history teachers often skip the topic for something easier and less controversial, like explaining to their fourth grades how the men who wrote the Declaration of Independence were also able to own slaves.
When you walk into the election booth and vote for your preferred candidates for president and vice-president, you are not voting for your preferred candidates for president and vice-president. You’re instead voting for someone to go vote on your behalf. This person is called an “elector” and we’re not making this up. You’re telling your elector, “Hey, person I’ve never heard of because I’m not enmeshed in state politics, go vote for me! And make sure you vote for these two people! Don’t screw up!”
Unfortunately, your elector can screw up and decide to vote differently. This way, the Constitution guarantees a president can be elected against a plurality’s decision. Such is the case of our current president, George W. Bush, who legally and appropriately rules a country that voted for someone else.
For better illustration, here’s a story:
On the Tuesday following November’s first Monday in a year divisible by four, you drive to another town in your state and grab someone you’ve never met.
You: Are you a U.S. Senator or Representative?
Them: No. Who are you?
You: Are you engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the United States, or providing comfort or aid to its enemies?
Them: Wh-what is this? Of course not! Am I in trouble?
You: No. Just checking. Listen, I need you to go vote for me.
Them: But I don’t even know you.
You: Who cares? Go vote, and make sure you vote for John Smith.
Them: Well, there’s something you should know: I have dementia. It comes and goes. There’s a remote chance I’ll think the ballot is a cheeseburger.
You: That is a risk I am willing to take for something as insignificant as selecting my country’s leaders during an election when we’re involved in multiple wars, globally despised, and under constant threat of nuclear attack.
Them: Cool. I’m in.
You: Remember, John Smith!
Them: Hold the pickles! Got it!
* * *
Question: I want to cook dinner for my girlfriend, but I don’t know how to cook anything. She knows this, but I want to try to put together something really great anyway. Any ideas?—Barry N.
Answer: We’re going to be serious for once. Make sure to press “Print” on your browser.
Go shopping on the day you’re planning to make dinner. Here’s your list:
(1) 3.0 lb. whole chicken
(1) Stick of unsalted butter
(1) Bunch of fresh rosemary
(6) Fingerling potatoes
(1) Loaf of tasty looking bread
(1) Lemon
Enough baby spinach leaves or mixed greens for two salads
You’ll also need salt, black pepper (peppercorns in a grinder), and olive oil. Given that you’re a cabin boy in a man’s kitchen, allow for 30 minutes of prep, followed by an hour of cooking.
Preheat the oven to 475 degrees. Set the butter on the table and let it warm up to room temperature. Wash your hands.
Rinse the potatoes, scrubbing off dirt with your fingers. Dry then slice them in half down the body (horizontally). Peel the rosemary leaves off the stalks and chop them very fine (do not use the stalks). Toss a thick pinch of the chopped rosemary in a mixing bowl with the potatoes, a tablespoon of olive oil (approximation: tip the bottle gently while counting one-Mississippi), and a dash of salt and pepper. Mix all of it around with your fingers until the potatoes are coated. Pave your roasting pan with the potatoes, skin side up in a single layer—when finished, it should look like a dirt-bike track.
Chop your butter into small pieces. Mix with the remaining rosemary, plus a dash of salt and pepper. Use a fork to mash it up until everything’s well mixed. Taste for salt and correct until it’s what you’d like to spread on a piece of bread. (This is called “compound butter.”) Now set a good-sized knob aside in a separate container—you’re going to use it in a moment with the chicken.
Unwrap your chicken. From here on out you’ve got chicken juice on your fingers, so be careful what you touch unless you want to spend the evening at the morgue, identifying your girlfriend’s stomach lining. Check the cavity for odd things; anything you find inside gets chucked unless you’re funky. Dry the chicken with paper towels. Notice that there’s meat, and then there’s skin. Work your fingers between the two, starting where they’re already separated, and you’ll see the skin easily separates and tents from the meat without tearing off. (Do not tear!) Slide most of the reserved rosemary-butter between the meat and skin on top (the breast side) and bottom (the bottom side) in a thin, even coating, so it looks like the chicken has multiple sub-dermal hematomas. Sink the rest inside the cavity and rest your chicken, breast-side down, on top of the potatoes.
Toss the pan in the oven. After 15 minutes, lower the temperature to 450 degrees and flip the chicken breast-side up. Return the pan to the oven for another 15 minutes. Lower the temperature to 425 degrees, remove the pan again, spoon up some of the juices and bathe the chicken. Return the pan and roast for another 15 minutes. Bathe again and let it roast for 15 minutes more. Last step is to remove the chicken, drop it on a plate, and let it cool on the counter for 10 minutes. Scoop the potatoes up onto other plate and cover with aluminum foil.
While the chicken has been roasting, you’ve also:
—Sliced the bread, wrapped it in aluminum foil, and thrown it in the oven to warm for the last 10 minutes of chicken cooking. Your girlfriend will comment on how thoughtful you are.
—Smooshed your non-chickened rosemary butter into a small dish (e.g., a ramekin) and smoothed over the top with a knife. Cover with wax paper or Saran Wrap, toss in the fridge to set, then pull it out again 20 minutes before dinner. Your girlfriend will spread this on her bread and promise you babies.
—Rinsed the lettuce and tossed it with a couple grinds of pepper, half a tablespoon of olive oil (one-Miss), a dash of salt and a squeeze of lemon juice (chop lemon in half; squeeze). Taste until it’s right.
Now it’s time to plate and serve. Know how to carve a bird? Here’s your cheater guide: Put a deep slice on the inside of both legs (drumsticks). Grab one and slowly pull it away from the chicken—imagine dislocating someone’s arm from their shoulder. (Don’t practice on a friend.) The joint will pop and the leg will come off cleanly. Serve one on each plate, plus a hefty slice (with the skin!) from either breast. Add potatoes, salad, unwrap the bread, and put the compound butter on the table. Drink wine and make babies.
(Note: The Non-Expert would like to add that his mother informed him last week that this recipe was recently featured almost step for step on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. He finds this uncanny since he’s been cooking it this way every week for two years, but chalks the coincidence up to the universal glory of roasted chickens, straight or gay.)
Every so often we dump the mailbag out on our receptionist’s desk and tip back our hats—alright, so we go through our email boxes and dive into a pile of Non-Expert requests. Here are a few recent questions and their responses:
Question: How does the electoral college work? —Ken G.
Answer: Good question, because at last count, there were six people in the country who could give you a correct answer. American history teachers often skip the topic for something easier and less controversial, like explaining to their fourth grades how the men who wrote the Declaration of Independence were also able to own slaves.
When you walk into the election booth and vote for your preferred candidates for president and vice-president, you are not voting for your preferred candidates for president and vice-president. You’re instead voting for someone to go vote on your behalf. This person is called an “elector” and we’re not making this up. You’re telling your elector, “Hey, person I’ve never heard of because I’m not enmeshed in state politics, go vote for me! And make sure you vote for these two people! Don’t screw up!”
Unfortunately, your elector can screw up and decide to vote differently. This way, the Constitution guarantees a president can be elected against a plurality’s decision. Such is the case of our current president, George W. Bush, who legally and appropriately rules a country that voted for someone else.
For better illustration, here’s a story:
On the Tuesday following November’s first Monday in a year divisible by four, you drive to another town in your state and grab someone you’ve never met.
You: Are you a U.S. Senator or Representative?
Them: No. Who are you?
You: Are you engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the United States, or providing comfort or aid to its enemies?
Them: Wh-what is this? Of course not! Am I in trouble?
You: No. Just checking. Listen, I need you to go vote for me.
Them: But I don’t even know you.
You: Who cares? Go vote, and make sure you vote for John Smith.
Them: Well, there’s something you should know: I have dementia. It comes and goes. There’s a remote chance I’ll think the ballot is a cheeseburger.
You: That is a risk I am willing to take for something as insignificant as selecting my country’s leaders during an election when we’re involved in multiple wars, globally despised, and under constant threat of nuclear attack.
Them: Cool. I’m in.
You: Remember, John Smith!
Them: Hold the pickles! Got it!
Question: I want to cook dinner for my girlfriend, but I don’t know how to cook anything. She knows this, but I want to try to put together something really great anyway. Any ideas?—Barry N.
Answer: We’re going to be serious for once. Make sure to press “Print” on your browser.
Go shopping on the day you’re planning to make dinner. Here’s your list:
(1) 3.0 lb. whole chicken
(1) Stick of unsalted butter
(1) Bunch of fresh rosemary
(6) Fingerling potatoes
(1) Loaf of tasty looking bread
(1) Lemon
Enough baby spinach leaves or mixed greens for two salads
You’ll also need salt, black pepper (peppercorns in a grinder), and olive oil. Given that you’re a cabin boy in a man’s kitchen, allow for 30 minutes of prep, followed by an hour of cooking.
Preheat the oven to 475 degrees. Set the butter on the table and let it warm up to room temperature. Wash your hands.
Rinse the potatoes, scrubbing off dirt with your fingers. Dry then slice them in half down the body (horizontally). Peel the rosemary leaves off the stalks and chop them very fine (do not use the stalks). Toss a thick pinch of the chopped rosemary in a mixing bowl with the potatoes, a tablespoon of olive oil (approximation: tip the bottle gently while counting one-Mississippi), and a dash of salt and pepper. Mix all of it around with your fingers until the potatoes are coated. Pave your roasting pan with the potatoes, skin side up in a single layer—when finished, it should look like a dirt-bike track.
Chop your butter into small pieces. Mix with the remaining rosemary, plus a dash of salt and pepper. Use a fork to mash it up until everything’s well mixed. Taste for salt and correct until it’s what you’d like to spread on a piece of bread. (This is called “compound butter.”) Now set a good-sized knob aside in a separate container—you’re going to use it in a moment with the chicken.
Unwrap your chicken. From here on out you’ve got chicken juice on your fingers, so be careful what you touch unless you want to spend the evening at the morgue, identifying your girlfriend’s stomach lining. Check the cavity for odd things; anything you find inside gets chucked unless you’re funky. Dry the chicken with paper towels. Notice that there’s meat, and then there’s skin. Work your fingers between the two, starting where they’re already separated, and you’ll see the skin easily separates and tents from the meat without tearing off. (Do not tear!) Slide most of the reserved rosemary-butter between the meat and skin on top (the breast side) and bottom (the bottom side) in a thin, even coating, so it looks like the chicken has multiple sub-dermal hematomas. Sink the rest inside the cavity and rest your chicken, breast-side down, on top of the potatoes.
Toss the pan in the oven. After 15 minutes, lower the temperature to 450 degrees and flip the chicken breast-side up. Return the pan to the oven for another 15 minutes. Lower the temperature to 425 degrees, remove the pan again, spoon up some of the juices and bathe the chicken. Return the pan and roast for another 15 minutes. Bathe again and let it roast for 15 minutes more. Last step is to remove the chicken, drop it on a plate, and let it cool on the counter for 10 minutes. Scoop the potatoes up onto other plate and cover with aluminum foil.
While the chicken has been roasting, you’ve also:
—Sliced the bread, wrapped it in aluminum foil, and thrown it in the oven to warm for the last 10 minutes of chicken cooking. Your girlfriend will comment on how thoughtful you are.
—Smooshed your non-chickened rosemary butter into a small dish (e.g., a ramekin) and smoothed over the top with a knife. Cover with wax paper or Saran Wrap, toss in the fridge to set, then pull it out again 20 minutes before dinner. Your girlfriend will spread this on her bread and promise you babies.
—Rinsed the lettuce and tossed it with a couple grinds of pepper, half a tablespoon of olive oil (one-Miss), a dash of salt and a squeeze of lemon juice (chop lemon in half; squeeze). Taste until it’s right.
Now it’s time to plate and serve. Know how to carve a bird? Here’s your cheater guide: Put a deep slice on the inside of both legs (drumsticks). Grab one and slowly pull it away from the chicken—imagine dislocating someone’s arm from their shoulder. (Don’t practice on a friend.) The joint will pop and the leg will come off cleanly. Serve one on each plate, plus a hefty slice (with the skin!) from either breast. Add potatoes, salad, unwrap the bread, and put the compound butter on the table. Drink wine and make babies.
(Note: The Non-Expert would like to add that his mother informed him last week that this recipe was recently featured almost step for step on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. He finds this uncanny since he’s been cooking it this way every week for two years, but chalks the coincidence up to the universal glory of roasted chickens, straight or gay.)
—Published October 1, 2004
