how to spatchcock a chicken.
“Come again?” Fred said.
“You cut the backbone out,” Daisy said. “Press it flat and roast it that way.”
“She did this the first weekend Erik brought her home,” Christine said. “I had a chicken dinner all planned, then my hours got screwed up and I was going to be late getting home. I told them to order pizza. Instead, I get home and Daisy’s made the whole meal. But she did this with the chicken.”
“I was showing off,” Daisy said, grimacing as she cut through a joint with the kitchen shears. “I’d watched my mother do it all the time but I never tried. So I called her up and she talked me through it. Erik was holding the phone to my ear with one hand and signing to Pete with the other, trying to explain what I was doing.”
“You had him at spatchcock,” Erik said. “He had to make up a new sign for it. It was like his favorite word for a year.”
“I think it’s mine now,” Fred said. “What’s the benefit of doing it this way, rather than roasting it whole?”
“The skin,” Erik and Christine said at the same time.
“The skin,” Daisy said, smiling.
“Every inch of it is crispy, salty and perfect,” Christine said. “We stood over the stove and tore it off with our fingers, remember? So disgustingly good.”
“You want to make stock with this?” Daisy asked, indicating the excised backbone.
“No,” Christine said. “I’ll never use it before we leave for Florida.”
Daisy regarded the scrap regretfully before tossing it in the garbage. She looked over at Erik, blinked her eyes once then returned to her work.
IN BROCKPORT, IT WAS Daisy’s turn to be shown around Erik’s world and introduced to friends and co-workers. They had lunch with Miles and Janey Kelly, the couple who had all but adopted Erik as their own. Afterward, Daisy asked to see where Erik lived when he was married to Melanie. He thought it a strange request, but he took her past the old Victorian in the historic district. She looked at it from the passenger side window, saying nothing for a long time.
“Where did you get married?” she finally asked.
“In Rochester. At the courthouse.”
She nodded, still looking out the window.
He took her hand and squeezed it. “What are you thinking?”
She looked over at him. “I’m glad I didn’t know until now. Every time I thought about reaching out to you one more time, I just… I didn’t want to find you were with someone. It was easier not to know.” She looked out at the house again, drew her breath in and let it out. “I don’t want to pretend it never happened though. So I wanted to see where.”
A slight unease glazed the visit. Their newfound love didn’t seem to fit into Erik’s turf. Perhaps because his apartment was so sparse and unwelcoming. Perhaps because, truth be told, he didn’t have much of a life outside work, whereas Daisy was so integrated and active in her community. Without it being discussed, the rest of the visits in January and February were in Saint John, where both of them felt at home.
Erik spent the long March break there, even though New Brunswick Ballet Theater was coming to the end of its winter season and Daisy couldn’t take much time away. Neither could Will. Erik ended up hanging out a lot with Lucky and the kids, which wasn’t always fun.
Jack still didn’t seem to care for Aunt Daisy’s new beau, and Sara’s constant chatter made Erik’s eyes glaze over. Driving with Lucky and the kids to a movie one morning, Erik calculated that Jack and Sara asked Lucky thirty-six questions in forty-five minutes. He would have gone batshit, but Lucky calmly fielded one inquiry after another, never losing patience. At least not to the outward eye.
“You’re like Answer Girl,” he said during a rare lull in the interrogation. “What will you do when the third one comes along?”
“I plan to become quite stupid then,” Lucky said.
Erik got back to Barbegazi in a strange mood. Just as unease had glazed Daisy’s visit to Brockport, this week felt suffused with a slight boredom.
Daisy’s car was in the driveway—with Sunday’s matinee performance over, the theater would be dark until Wednesday. Getting out of the car, Erik noticed the flag on the mailbox was still up so he went to collect yesterday’s post. He flipped through it, as if expecting something for him.
His fingers stopped, backtracked and drew out a plain white