Spatchcocked!

Spatchcock. Now there's a word you don't hear everyday. Actually in the U.S your don't really hear it at all.  But I've always loved that word. Simply speaking it means "to butterfly'', specifically a chicken.  I bought a chicken at the market, but the thought of roasting it when outside temperatures were soaring into the 90's did not seem appealing.  OK, so the thought of standing outside next to a hot grill was not appealing either, but a girl has to eat.

I wanted to make something a little different, something a little spicy. Chicken Fra Diavolo.

I placed the chicken, breast side down, on the cutting board; and cutting on either side of the backbone, removed it. I then turned the chicken over and pressed down on the breastbone until the chicken was somewhat flattened.  I  massaged the bird all over with olive oil, salt and hot red pepper flakes, then parked it to marinate for a couple of hours.

In the meantime, I grilled some zucchini, seasoned it, and set it to wait at room temperature.

When the sun went down, I was as ready as I was going to be to light the grill. I heated it to about medium-high and placed the chicken breast side down, poured a glass of icy white wine, grabbed my book and settled next to the grill to keep my eye on the bird.  I let the bird cook for about 45-50 minutes, turning quite frequently to avoid burning.

The chicken was done just as John walked through the door. After letting the bird rest a bit, I cut it up and finished it off with a squirt of lemon.

A green salad added, and it was dinner.