OK, not a recipe, more like advice: Roasting a chicken in a bag is far easier than roasting a chicken in tin foil. Of course the tin foil saves the chicken from alien mind control and cosmic rays but it can be tricky to handle in the “ouch, feckin' ouch!” moment when you try to remove the hot fowl from the roasting tray. The bag is made of some even more magical material than aluminium, this stuff breathes and blows up like a balloon or a steam engine but curiously it lets out grease, gunge and juices at the same time. I can't really explain it, it's as unfathomable as the depths of Radio 6 or the backwards meaning of the Times editorial June 4th. The bags have a secret nylon wrap, born from that strange sexually ambivalent moment that occurred when New York met London on a moonlit night in the thirties whilst under the influence of champagne in a world that was not as free as it considered itself to be. To purchase said containers means a trip to some Tesco emporium, 50p for two, hardly rocket science prices.
Serve with family, baked spuds, corn, creamed neeps and carrot, works for me.
