Goddam roast chicken. I don’t know why I make roast chicken. I either don’t like it or I can’t cook it. Likely a bit of both.

I’ve had one roast chicken I really liked — at Delfina, naturally. And actually, Costco chicken is pretty good. But both of these chickens are roasted in hot-ass ovens, or on rotisseries. French housewives be damned, I am now thoroughly convinced that cooking a chicken in a home oven is just asking for disappointment. It’s simply not that good. And it may be a staple of the modern dinner table, but chicken is not cheap. I’ll take sausage. Or beef.

I can cook 14-pound turkeys with my eyes closed, so why not a 4-pound chicken? I salted my fresh, free-range Rosie bird overnight and left her exposed to the dry fridge air all night, hoping she’d dry out just a bit so the skin would crisp up nicely under the heat. I rubbed her with a little oil (was that the fatal mistake?), then peppered her all over and tied her up. A half hour on her chest, then 15 minutes on her back, and I poked her gently with the thermometer — 170°, check. (Too hot, maybe.) She rested for about 10 minutes, and I cut her open. Beautiful, tender, juicy…and goddammit to hell, pink at the bone. Not soft and pretty pink but fleshy, shiny pink, as in not done pink. Shoot me.

Mashed potatoes (with buttermilk and caramelized onions) and artichoke-lemon sauce are ready, laundry is coming out of the wash (I was feeling industrious), and the goddam chicken needs to be cooked some more. Shit.

Aggravating long story short, Rosie’s meat is juicy and flavorful, but the skin is nearly flaccid and still pale, and this in a 450° oven. I mean, c’mon, I need a spit. Maybe a grill. A smoker.

Now I’m torn: Cook a chicken every night until I get it right? Or go back to poaching my birds and sampling Costco birds at Sid’s? At least I’ll have some good soup this weekend. And clean clothes.