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Created by Chef Thomas
Chicken thighs braised slowly with root vegetables and thyme, suet dumplings dropped on top to steam and swell into something pillowy, the whole pot brought to the table on a cold evening when nothing else will do.
The rain started at four and hadn't stopped. The kitchen window had gone grey. I stood at the hob with a glass of cider and the last of the parsnips from the market, and it occurred to me that this was a dumplings evening. You know the ones. The evenings that call for something heavy and kind, brought to the table in the pot it was cooked in.
A chicken casserole with dumplings is not a dish that asks you to be clever. It asks you to be patient. To brown the meat properly, to let the onions go soft and sweet, to leave the pot alone while it does its quiet work. The dumplings go on top for the last twenty minutes, and they puff and swell in the steam until they're pillowy on top and soaked with sauce underneath. The first time someone cuts into one and the inside is light and cloud-like, you'll understand why this dish has survived every food fashion going.
I think this is the most democratic dish in Britain. It doesn't care about your kitchen or your budget. It cares about the evening: cold outside, warm in, someone to feed. We're only making dinner. But sometimes dinner is the whole point.
I wrote it down in the notebook last winter: chicken, dumplings, Tuesday, rain. It didn't need more than that.
Quantity
8
Quantity
2 tablespoons
seasoned with salt and pepper
Quantity
a knob
Quantity
a splash
Quantity
2
halved and sliced
Quantity
3
peeled and cut into thick rounds
Quantity
2 sticks
sliced
Quantity
2
peeled and cut into chunks
Quantity
3 cloves
crushed
Quantity
a few sprigs
Quantity
2
Quantity
500ml
Quantity
200ml
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
150g
Quantity
75g
Quantity
1 tablespoon
chopped
Quantity
a pinch
Quantity
5-6 tablespoons
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs | 8 |
| plain flourseasoned with salt and pepper | 2 tablespoons |
| butter | a knob |
| olive oil | a splash |
| onionshalved and sliced | 2 |
| carrotspeeled and cut into thick rounds | 3 |
| celerysliced | 2 sticks |
| parsnipspeeled and cut into chunks | 2 |
| garliccrushed | 3 cloves |
| thyme | a few sprigs |
| bay leaves | 2 |
| chicken stock | 500ml |
| dry cider or white wine | 200ml |
| Dijon mustard | 1 tablespoon |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepper | to taste |
| self-raising flour | 150g |
| shredded suet | 75g |
| flat-leaf parsleychopped | 1 tablespoon |
| salt | a pinch |
| cold water | 5-6 tablespoons |
Pat the chicken thighs dry and dust them in the seasoned flour. Get a large, heavy casserole pot over a medium-high heat with the butter and oil. When the butter foams and the kitchen starts to smell warm and toasty, lay the thighs in, skin side down, and leave them alone. Don't crowd the pan. Do them in two batches if you need to. Three or four minutes per side, until the skin is deep gold and properly crisp. Lift them out onto a plate. The skin won't stay crisp forever, but the browning builds the flavour that everything else will borrow from.
Turn the heat down to medium. There should be golden, sticky residue on the bottom of the pot. Good. Add the onions with a pinch of salt and stir them through the fat, scraping up all the caramelised bits as you go. Let them cook for five or six minutes until they're soft and starting to turn translucent. Add the carrots, celery, parsnips, and garlic. Stir everything together and cook for another three or four minutes, just long enough for the vegetables to take on a little colour at the edges and the garlic to smell of itself.
Pour in the cider or wine and let it bubble for a minute, dissolving anything still stuck to the bottom. Add the stock, the mustard, the thyme, and the bay leaves. Stir it all through. Nestle the chicken thighs back in, skin side up, so they sit on top of the vegetables with the skin just above the liquid. You want the skin exposed to the heat, not submerged. Bring it to a gentle simmer, put the lid on slightly ajar, and let it cook for forty minutes. Low and quiet. The kitchen will start to smell the way a kitchen should smell on a cold evening.
While the casserole simmers, make the dumplings. Combine the self-raising flour, suet, chopped parsley, and a pinch of salt in a bowl. Add the cold water a tablespoon at a time, mixing with a fork until the dough just comes together. It should be soft and slightly sticky, not dry and not wet. Flour your hands and roll the mixture into eight rough balls. Don't overwork them. A light touch makes a light dumpling. A heavy hand makes a cannonball.
After forty minutes, take the lid off the casserole. The sauce should have reduced a little and the chicken should be tender enough that a knife slides through it without resistance. Taste the sauce. Season it now, properly: salt, pepper, more mustard if it needs a sharper edge. Drop the dumplings gently onto the surface of the stew, leaving a little space between each one. They'll swell as they cook. Put the lid back on and cook for fifteen to twenty minutes, until the dumplings have puffed up and feel firm when you press the top lightly with a finger. Take the lid off for the last five minutes if you want the tops to set with a slight golden crust.
Bring the whole pot to the table. That's the proper way to serve this. Let people help themselves, spooning out chicken and vegetables and dumplings and plenty of the sauce. A scattering of parsley over the top if you have it. Good bread on the side if you want, though the dumplings do the bread's job honestly. There are few better feelings than putting this pot in the middle of the table on a dark, cold evening and watching people lean in.
1 serving (about 580g)
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