a healthy fear of electricity…

….and chicken thighs.

I would like to register a minor complaint: more than a few times I’ve stupidly tabled a food essay because I wavered over 1. the premise being too bizarre, even by my standards or 2. my ability to weave a clever story from said bizarre premise. This very post about chicken thighs had been sitting in draft form for weeks when Emily Weinstein at the New York Times swooped in ahead of me:

You weren’t the only one who noticed the meteoric rise in thigh recipes, Emily. Since I’m a devoted social lemming, thighs have quietly usurped breasts in my kitchen too, despite my long-standing and completely justified fear of slimy, soft wads of chicken fat. They scared me. I was facing down my chicken thigh phobia weeks before that article, but this month my lallygagging caught up with me. Instead of finishing the blog post, I farted around shopping for summer dresses, launched the book on Amazon, updated a hideous 1973 bathroom, and basically did any and everything but write. I didn’t say I was unproductive, just avoidant.

Now obviously I don’t have a column in the New York Times, but my handful of loyal followers understand how irksome this wholly-imagined intellectual theft was for me. So I trashed the post and began again, no longer touting my spring kitchen makeover but rather, focusing on that very bathroom project that sidelined the blog. But still…those thighs. What you failed to mention, Emily, was the implausible, but very cool connection between reimagining chicken thighs and reimagining a bathroom. How’s that for a bizarre premise? Toilets and cooking are not common bedfellows, so my apologies for the unfortunate juxtaposition – it was simply time to deal with that bathroom. While Foodishness has a tendency to occasionally morph into Toolishness, I always have food on the brain.

End of rant.

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The main floor half-bath upgrade happened to coincide with the great June chicken thigh festival of 2024. And while it has nothing to do with cooking, the lessons I learned from this project are universally helpful. I wish I had a “before” photo of the unrivaled hideousness I ignored for over 20 years. I honestly don’t have a pic – it was so awful we not only refused to see it, I refused to photograph it (another vote for stupidity.) Just last month Husband painstakingly made a video of the entire house for insurance. For hours he rooted through every drawer, moved every tchotchke, rifled through every closet – surely I could grab a screen shot from that. Alas, he did not record this one room, perhaps in hope that it would spontaneously combust, so I guess it’s up to me…

The bathroom walls were an ironic shade of light brown, a hue my family calls caca d’oie. They are not wrong. These windowless, mustardy walls complimented the shell-shaped sink that boasted faux marble swirls of caca and ivory. Naturally, aging ivory was the trim color to ensure there was no glimmer of crisp clean lines or hope. The toilet and hexagonal floor tiles were all pink, but not 1940s “save those tiles!” pink. It was a very particular shade of fleshy rose which managed to both neutralize and celebrate those doo-doo brown walls. It was a hellscape, I tell you.

After a dozen trips to Lowe’s and few cray-cray 16-hour days, I have my beautifully appointed new bathroom. By comparison, it seems we’d been using an indoor outhouse all this time so we now invent reasons (other than the obvious) to go and gaze at the end result. Imagine excusing yourself from the dinner table to go “double-check the caulking.” Seriously, the transformation is so shocking it begs the question, why did I wait so long?

The answer is complicated and likely rooted in timing, life priorities, economics, and fear. The first 3 were slowly resolved over the years, but I still waited and endured that embarrassing room every single day. I think sometimes it is easier to ignore & settle, but I always felt an anxious uncertainty followed by the choice to not act. Is that fear? Possibly, but perhaps it takes maturity to delay a task properly, in which case I’d repackage the phrase ignore & settle as pardon & prioritize. Inaction is not always a measure of your energy or abilities, but quite often your restraint. Sometimes life demands graceful and calculated complacency as a way of reminding you of what is really, truly important. That’s what I’d call healthy fear, also known as discernment, and it’s an invaluable life skill.

As for that healthy fear of electricity, this phrase came as friendly, but deadly serious instruction from my multipotentialite hero, Melvin, a former colleague who can build, cure, roast, mill, and craft anything. Last winter after I bought the nail gun and orbital sander I happened to run into Melvin. I casually mentioned my 70s light fixtures and aging circuit breakers, and it was at this moment he stopped me mid-sentence to ensure I was appropriately scared to death of electrocution. I was and still am; the only electrical work I did last week was to replace a ghastly light fixture and install a GFCI outlet, which only took 15 trips to the panel box. That’s my limit because I like being alive – everything else electrical gets a pro. The lesson is that a little healthy fear can be both productive and progressive in the very best ways.

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Despite the lengthy prelude, the point of the original post remains: chicken thighs have become all the rage from cooking shows and Insta reels to Epicurious and Bon Appétit. In a brilliant marketing move, thighs are receiving aggressive praise as more the flavorful and juicy alternative to yesterday’s hackneyed, dry, bland breasts. The terms flavorful & juicy are really just gamey & fatty repackaged for a new wave of foodies who may not possess a particularly hearty or un-pampered palate. GenXers were automatically conscripted into the Clean Plate Club; we ate those thighs and we were thankful even if we left the table a little bit scarred.

Disclaimer: properly prepared Southern fried chicken thighs are immune. They are always divine.

The silliest part of all this is that dark meat has been magically elevated from mundane to exquisite because of a few TikToks. Maybe the manufactured buzz was intended to remind everyone that the chicken parts of their youth could be upgraded with modern culinary sensibilities, which is totally fair. It just seems like we are being lectured by millenials who assume eating chicken thighs is revolutionary. Calm down y’all, it’s not offal, not an endangered species, and not cat. It’s a damn chicken thigh, they’ve been served for centuries, and you’re not getting a trophy.

And yes, I know I’m still ranting.

Whether traditional or contemporary, thighs ARE gamey and fatty, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But with a few tweaks in method and delivery I’ve been able to overcome the majority of my yucky thigh memories and resolve any lingering mouthfeel phobias. And I’m determined to be at least as worthy of and grateful for these modern recipes as those who never suffered a mouthful of undercooked chicken fat. Now that I have established that chicken thighs can be less than delicious, let’s take a look at why and how the internet seems to be buzzing with recipes.

First, many of these recipes are simply remakes of late 20th century breast dishes now temp- and time-adjusted for more forgiving and succulent dark meat with that flappy sheath of skin/fat. Ironically, I bet the recipes were historically intended for thighs and legs but had to be sterilized for the breast-crazy American diet. Great care seems to be taken to properly caramelize that skin and produce a crispy, non-gross exterior. Next, the creators also seem to shamelessly flirt with flamboyant herbs and spices (especially eastern and middle eastern) they apparently just discovered! This I fully endorse since it describes over half my larder. Richer thigh meat willingly participates with the seasonings rather than acting as a happy, neutral shingle on which flavor is delivered. Finally, the new thighs are typically paired with a sauce. The “while your chicken cooks” extras are often either a cool, herby cream sauce (think yogurt, halloumi, cashew) which serves as foil for the spiced crispy fat, or a drizzle of a zesty flavor (something sweet and/or sour) for extra punch and tang.

From these popular trends I honed my new thigh routine down to three guiding principles:

1. Outrageous Seasoning & Marinades
2. High Heat Cooking
3. Contrasting Sauce

1. The prep stage of chicken thighs can be as complex or basic as your hankerings, but the starter combo of salt, pepper, and oil should be standard. Herbs are next, followed by an acid, and then additions like garlic, mustard, or other hearty flavoring. Season and marinate anywhere from 1 to 24 hours and bring to room temp before cooking.

2. A raging hot oven can be transformative for thighs, skin-on in particular. Ironically, it is a 95° June day as I’m writing and I’m touting an oven. The formula is straightforward: blast those thighs on a wire rack at 410° to 425° for 35-40 minutes and baste with juices the last 10 minutes. Grilling is fabulous at a generous medium-high on greased grates for 4-6 minutes per side. For both methods, let them rest a few minutes in tented foil and check for 165° internal temp.

3. Sauces really are chef’s choice and can be as simple as a swirl of chili crisp, chutney, or pesto depending on your mood and constitution. But a combo like fresh mint, rich yogurt, green onions, a shot of lemon juice, and a fiery jalapeño might be a fate changer.

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I began the month with fear, and not the good kind: gamey, fatty chicken thighs and an ugly bathroom that I had ignored and settled for since 2003. Then on a philosophical level, my old pal maturity stepped in and reeducated me with some cheery reframing of negative characterizations. While cheery sounds naive and goofy, the point was well-taken. On a practical level my chicken thighs began to identify as flavorful and juicy, bathed in seasonings and sauces I’d never imagined. Caca was replaced with a warm, crisp white and the 1970s was miraculously painted out of my home. Finally, on a personal level, I’m more comfortable pardoning my blunders and more likely to thoughtfully prioritize my projects. A little healthy fear has become my new best friend.

Winner, winner, as they say.

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A post shared by Arash Hashemi (@shredhappens)

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