I tend to go a little nuts when I have a day off, which partly explains the parade of treats coming out of my kitchen this weekend. My oversupply of clementines explains some of the rest: clementine jam, yogurt (sweetened with the clementine jam), and candied clementine peel, which fortuitously, I learned, turns out to be one of the few things Shelli can stomach in her early pregnancy.

The big news is that after several years of drooling, I finally did it and purchased my first-ever piece of Le Creuset. (Thanks to my always generous brother, who blessed me with a big-ass gift card for Christmas, nudging the decision-making.) I am in love.

I went with the dual-toned red, 5.5-quart size — the most versatile, in my opinion (I really don’t cook massive roasts all that often), and thoroughly manageable, which means I won’t strain my back pulling it out of the oven. I brought it home less than 24 hours ago and have already used it twice.

Le Creuset demands braising, so I headed straight for Bi-Rite for something worthy of the maiden voyage. Beef, clearly, and the Bi-Rite folks actually had boneless chuck roasts, perfect for a lovely brasato al Barolo (beef braised in Barolo wine — or Cabernet Sauvignon if, like me, Barolo is a little beyond your budget). (Later I took my first shot at the now-infamous No-Knead Bread. More on that later.)

If you’re going to go large, you might as well go all the way, so I decided to pair the beef with some homemade pappardelle. Why not? If I had more time on my hands, I’d make pasta all the time. After you dig out the pasta machine and get a little workout kneading the dough (don’t skimp on the kneading!), your work is nearly done. A little rest, a spin through the machine, and a little cutting, and you’re ready to go.

Maybe it was cook’s intuition, but the pasta turns out to have been a great call, since it turns out that I overcooked the beef. Sigh. Backup plan: Shredded and resubmerged in the braising liquid, with some peas thrown in for sweet and color, beef in Barolo makes a brilliant pasta sauce. We’ll call it Pappardelle con Sugo di Bresato…e Piselli.

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.