For most of 2019, I thought it was a shitty year. My mom died 16 days into it, and nothing could really make up for that loss. Or so I thought. Last night when I was watching cute videos of my daughter on my phone, I realized that Apple had made a movie of my 2019 — Year in Review, 2019. So I watched it. And I cried. And I cried and cried and cried. And then I realized that this movie, which my phone just created on its own through Apple’s intelligent machine-learning software, proved me wrong. The movie essentially personifies the popular adage: Life is what happens when you’re making other plans. I literally watched my daughter grow up before my eyes. I melted when I saw so many faces that are such a huge part of my life. I laughed when I relived so many joyous moments and so many amazing smiles. And I cried when I watched it all come together in just one year, such a seemingly short time but such an important and amazing one. Sometimes it just takes a little piece of technology to remember the human side of life. I am blessed. 2019 wasn’t so shitty after all.
My mom knitted sweaters for countless new babies. She knitted them so large that it would take YEARS before they fit, but that was her pragmatic German side coming through. “Pooch (her nickname for me), you don’t want them to grow out of the sweater so quickly!” She was right. Sadly, Mom was never able to knit a sweater for my daughter. By the time we found out Addie was on the way, her fingers were so messed up from the neuropathy that she could barely write, let alone knit.
This morning, a close friend sent me a picture of his daughter in her sweater—a beautiful, thick red cardigan. She’s just about to start first grade and it finally fits her. The photo simultaneously made me smile and cry. After Mom passed away, I was looking through her address book and found my friend’s daughter’s name in it. Not his, but his daughter’s. His daughter always held a special place in Mom’s heart, even though they never met in person. This was true for a lot of little ones—my mom was a surrogate Oma (grandma in German) to countless kids, even if she never met them. My friend told me that his little pumpkin remembers my mom had knit her that sweater, and remembered that it was too big on her for many years. At that moment, all I wanted to do was text the picture to my mom and tell her that. But how can you text heaven?
Addie is 9-months old now and getting so big. Her rolls are remarkable. She recently decided she no longer wants to nurse, which makes me sad. For some reason, I always thought it would be my decision to stop nursing. I don’t know why but maybe I just wanted—or needed—to control something on this crazy journey of motherhood. It goes without saying that raising a baby is far from easy, but nursing one is absolutely crazy town. I just read an article in the NY Times where the author paints a picture of how she thought nursing would go.
“When I was pregnant and I imagined myself breast-feeding, I usually pictured myself out to brunch with some friends. When the baby was hungry I’d pop on my color-coordinated nursing cover, and she’d latch right on while I enjoyed my mascarpone French toast. That’s not what it was like at all.”
Ha. Brilliant. I couldn’t have said it better myself. My mom, unfortunately, played into that myth by constantly reminding me she breast-fed me until I was three, and that she had more milk than she knew what to do with! Thanks, Mom. It didn’t work out that way for Addie and me. My labor was rough, I lost a lot of blood, and that led to my milk production being very, very low. But how does one even know that? Until a horrible lactation consultant tells you that you’re hurting your baby’s brain development, shoves a bottle of formula in her mouth without asking, and you end up in tears in a sterile, cold doctor’s office, battling no sleep, a sick mother on the opposite coast, and the worst California wildfires in years outside your window. It sucked. Mascarpone French toast, it was not.
I wish more people talked about how difficult the breast-feeding journey is. I still don’t understand why our culture has such taboos around such natural things like breast-feeding and miscarriage. Addie’s nanny is from El Salvador and it’s amazing how differently they handle things, especially feeding. They have a community who supports each other. They have a tribe. Where is our tribe? Why does our culture strive for all aspects of life to be Instagram-worthy perfection? Last week, I spent my entire grief counseling session crying—mostly about my decreased milk production, how sad it makes me that Addie no longer wants to nurse, and how hard it is to maintain pumping throughout the day, even when she is right next to me because she shakes her head furiously when I put her near my boobs. In El Salvador, they don’t even have breast pumps. How did we get here? I wish our bougie breast-feeding class had even touched on one aspect of this part of the journey. But sadly, it was mostly propaganda for breast-feeding, to which I wanted to jump up and shout, “Why would we be here paying all this money if we didn’t want to breast-feed!” Last week I wanted more than anything to call my mom, but unfortunately, I haven’t found the phone number for heaven yet.
When I encounter this gut-wrenching sadness about missing Mom, I try to remember that her sweaters are bringing joy all over the world. When I was putting together the video for her memorial, I received photos of kids in her sweaters from as close as New Jersey to as far away as New Zealand. That makes me smile. Dozens of kids, many of whom never even met my mom, know her and remember her. That is exactly the legacy that she wanted to leave on this world. I know she can see them and is smiling at all their joy. I’m pretty sure they have cameras in heaven.
In the very first issue I worked on for the very first magazine I worked at, I got to write the captions for a fashion feature. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was a big deal. A very big deal. Editorial assistants, let alone fashion assistants like me, never got to write anything. We made photocopies, we sent faxes (yes, faxes), we answered phone calls (yes, land lines), and we organized the mail. I did work on the computer, too, since I was the only one in the fashion department who had a computer (due to the fact that I was really the only one in the department who knew how to use a computer). I created databases for contacts and organized images of fashion shows into folders, all for naught since old-fashioned Rolodexes and giant drawers of slides from the shows reigned supreme. This was 1999 after all. But I was an eager beaver, over-achieving NYC girl fresh off the boat from college, so I jumped in head first and convinced the fashion features editor to let me help her with the article since she was so busy. It worked. It was an article about how fashion mimicked art and it couldn’t have been more in my wheelhouse. I researched those captions with abandon and handed my work in with pride — and with all my research attached. The editor laughed a little but seemed very appreciative. And so it went, the first writing I ever did that went to print.
Luckily for me, the fashion magazine I was working at, Mirabella, started a home section while I was there and needed someone to — you guessed it — write the captions for those stories. I got to attend photo shoots in some of the most fabulous apartments in NYC and meet some of the most fabulous women in NYC (most of whom I was too young to appreciate at the time), and then run around the city looking for the furniture they had in their homes so our readers could buy it, too. (The modern pieces were easy to source, the Louis XIV vintage, velvet-covered furniture, not so much.) But once again, I approached writing those captions with abandon and loved my job. My 12-hours a day, eat baked potatoes at every meal, $20K a year job. Because I got to write captions.
Fast forward 20 years to today, past my jump into the “Internet” and all the jobs that followed, which thankfully paid more than $20K a year (some only slightly more), and the countless captions, articles, and video scripts I wrote over those years. My most memorable and proud writing feats included interviewing Rihanna, LeAnn Rimes, and Kiera Knightly (all in person!) during my days as a teen magazine editor. But then something happened. As I climbed up the corporate ladder to becoming an executive, moving to London and then to San Francisco to further my career, I somehow stopped writing. There was no time for that anymore. I had teams to do that now. I had too many brainstorms and budgets and board meetings to prepare for. I loved my jobs but I missed writing, and I was too busy to even realize it. When life at work got stressful, I baked scones in the office kitchen that was meant for video shoots. (No one really minded because, well, hot scones.) But it wasn’t enough. I left my corporate life behind, moved to Ireland to live on a farm, and learned to cook properly. I started a blog, mostly just to remember what I cooked and how to cook it! When I returned stateside, I had no idea what to do with me life. Strangely, writing didn’t even occur to me. But then a friend called me up to help her cook for a photo shoot, and serendipitously my new life began. I met an editor on that photo shoot who was about to go to the same cooking school in Ireland I had just returned from (some could call it coincidence, but I call it fate), and without even realizing it, I was on a path back to writing again.
My first cookbook was published last October, a week before my daughter was born. The day I went into labor, I went into the Williams Sonoma store on Chestnut Street in San Francisco and saw it on display. It didn’t seem real. But my husband was with me to witness that it was. (Maybe the excitement sent me into labor?!)
I have been rubbish about telling people I wrote a cookbook. I blame the sleep deprivation and altered state of reality that comes with having a newborn. Some friends text me pictures from Williams Sonoma stores and say, “You wrote a book?!” Others ask me if I have any good recipes for the Instant Pot and I say yes, in fact, I wrote a whole book with recipes for the Instant Pot. I also hear many stories about people being too scared to take their Instant Pots out of the box (Ina Garten included), so I tell them that I was on a video series called That Expert Show where I explain how to use it and highlight some recipes to help them get started. But since my second cookbook is now in Williams Sonoma stores, I thought it was about time I stopped being so rubbish about telling people I wrote a cookbook. Or two.
My mom passed away in January and I think about her a lot. She loved my blog. She always asked me to print it for her so she could have it in a book. No matter how much I explained that was counter intuitive to the digital medium of a blog, she didn’t care. She wanted it printed. She wanted to hold it. She always said to me, “You are such a beautiful writer, you missed your calling.”
By the time I could give her a copy of my first cookbook, she was too sick to read it. But I take comfort in the fact that she knew I had written it, and she was finally able to hold a book I had written. She never opened it, but she knew what I had accomplished. I knew she was proud of me, and that gave me the permission to be proud of myself. And to tell people what I have accomplished (and to tell them to take their Instant Pots out of the box!). I’m writing a third book in the series now, and my daughter is finally old enough to eat some of the dishes from it. Life is coming full circle and writing is fulfilling me on new levels that I never even thought possible. Well, Mom, I guess I didn’t miss my calling after all.
I never thought that my first Mother’s Day would be so bittersweet. As I look my beautiful daughter in her curious, wide eyes, and truly feel for the first time what it’s like to love so much, I look around for you to share it with, but you’re not here.
I miss you. I miss your love. I miss your hugs. I miss your German accent. I miss your innocent smile (the one you gave even when you were up to something mischievous). Addie has the same smile. She has a lot of you in her.
The other night I dreamt that you were still with us. We were having a party at your house and you said that all you had to do was “push the toxins out of my body and then I was cured.” I wish it were that easy. I wish it happened that way. But boy did you give cancer a good fight. Always with a smile. Always with everything you had. Always with your face on. Because why go to chemo without your face on, decked out in a stylish hat and Tiffany jewels. You are such a classy lady, I can only hope I’ll be half as classy as you are some day.
I wish you could have had more time with Addie. That’s my biggest regret. She’s amazing. Her laugh is infectious and her smile can light up a room. Kind of like you. You would love her. And I know she would have loved you in all your Oma glory. As I write this, I am sitting in the park with Addie sleeping in her stroller on a sunny San Francisco day, crying that you’re not here with us. I cry a lot these days. I’m often struck by waves of emptiness, a feeling I have never experienced before in this way. It’s different than missing you. Because if it was just missing you, I would know I could see you again one day. But I know I can’t. I’ll only see you in pictures and in my mind. And that will have to suffice.
So many beautiful Mother’s Day photos and sentiments on Facebook. You loved Facebook. You were hilarious at Facebook. There will never be anyone like you on Facebook ever again, that is for sure. You could bring people joy even on Facebook. You were one of a kind. I know your bedroom has shoeboxes full of cards I gave you through the years. One day I might be able to bring myself to go through them. Not yet. But I did find this watercolor painting I gave you when I was really young. It was in a pile of bills and documents I was going through after you died. It was in a box near the couch where you left everything as if you had just gotten up to go get groceries. I don’t think you knew you would never come back to that couch. I don’t think you knew you would never come back home to Dad. I don’t think you knew you would never be able to hug us again. I didn’t either. You left us too soon. Before I could even say goodbye to you in person. Knowing you, you probably did that on purpose. You probably didn’t want me to see you without your face on. But what you probably didn’t realize is that I will always see what is behind that stunning face. Your heart, your soul, your tenacity, your strength, your courage, your strong will, and your endless love.
I love you, too.
I can’t imagine missing you more than I do today. As much as today is all about me, it’s really all about us. On this day 42 years ago when you pushed me out breech (without any pain medication!), everything changed — obviously for me, but I know it did for you, too.
Now that I’m a mom, everything has changed again. I see things with a new light and perspective, yet I’m only just beginning to understand how hard this journey is. I’ve only just begun to see how much you give of yourself when you have a child — and how much you gave of yourself for me. I’ve been crying for the past two days. I know that’s OK, I know that I’ll be grieving for a long, long time, but this birthday has been harder than I ever could have imagined it would be. When Addie saw me crying yesterday, she gave me the biggest smile. She then attempted to give me a hug, but ended up falling over midway and then fell asleep in that pose. Classic Addie. I wish you could have had more time with her. There is A LOT of you in her. She’s bubbly, energetic, strong-willed, chatty, and hilarious. She cracks herself up and has the most infectious giggle. She can brighten someone’s day with just a smile. There is a lot of you in her.
It’s been hard getting the mail recently, seeing all the birthday cards and knowing I’ll never receive one from you again. I loved your cards. And even more, I loved the chocolate cakes you mailed to me in college on my birthday, beautifully wrapped and tied with Tiffany ribbon. Enough for me to share with all my roommates, you would say. And boy did they love those cakes, too. You’ve made a lot of people smile in your life.
I’ve been seeing a grief counselor to help me work through losing you, and today she reminded me that if there were ever a day that was all about the connection that you and I had, it would be today. She’s very perceptive and has already observed that we had a very special connection. As she put it, the perfect balance between mother and daughter and friends. And she reminded me how rare that is. I cherish our relationship so much, especially the fact that we talked almost every day. I know that was rare. I loved that I could call you anytime and you could always tell by the sound of my voice what was going on. It was really hard not to be able to call you on the day I had Addie — the happiest day of my life, but so bittersweet because you were in the hospital and not doing well. If there ever was a day I needed you, Mom, it was on the day I birthed my daughter. It wasn’t an easy birth, and was quite scary at times, but the euphoria that followed was like nothing I have ever felt before. That first cry, that first cuddle. Nothing compares to holding your baby on your chest for the first time. I know you know that, but boy how I wanted to share that joy with you. I’m still heartbroken that I couldn’t, and that it would be days before we talked, when you still couldn’t really process what had happened. I will be forever grateful that you were able to make it to our wedding and see Andrew and I start our life together. But I will be forever saddened that you weren’t with me when Addie came into this world, that I couldn’t hold your hand or hear your voice tell me that everything would be OK.
I never told you that I lost a pregnancy before Addie. You were dealing with a lot at the time and I decided that you should focus on your health and healing, not mine. But I will always remember the look on your face when we told you I was pregnant, on Dad’s birthday with a card for “Opa” and the sonogram inside. I could feel your joy that day, and again on the day we called you from the car to tell you that you it was a girl. (And who could forget your countless phone calls and texts from that day forward trying to get her name out of us.) But that’s who you were, and I couldn’t imagine life any other way.
Thank you for raising me with so much love and confidence, for everything you sacrificed to provide for me, for all of yourself that you’ve given to me. Thank you for letting me spread my wings to explore the world, and coming to visit me everywhere I landed. Thank you for trusting me to make my own decisions and pave my own path, and for holding my hand along the way. I would not be where I am today, or be the person that I am, if it weren’t for you — and your never-ending love. I love you and I miss you.
I love a good muffin. But for all the years I have been baking, I rarely find one that is up to snuff. I have high standards, yes, but I firmly believe that any food eaten for breakfast should not only be insanely satisfying and satiating, but also make you want to pop out of bed and devour it. A tall stack of blueberry pancakes — check. Perfectly fried eggs and crispy bacon on homemade sourdough bread — check. But muffins, to me, have never reached a level worthy of co-mingling with their other breakfast cousins. Until now.
Part of my job as a cookbook editor requires me to read a lot of other cookbooks. (My dear husband is so patient with the unyielding piles that seem to sprout up all over our living room and kitchen on a daily basis.) When I’m in the office, the floor around my desk is a veritable moat of cookbooks from the Williams Sonoma archives, simultaneously bringing me endless excitement and protection from the real world that lies on the other side. Last week when I began working on the next American Girl cookbook, I dug out The Essentials of Baking from the archives. What a gem. Not only is it insanely interesting to me to read about what people baked years ago, but also how they wrote about it. (In my next life, I want to be a food historian. Or maybe in this life, who knows.) The photos, the descriptions, the headnotes about why you should bake a particular recipe are all fascinating. And then I stumbled on the muffin chapter. Among a smattering of interesting recipes, I was intrigued by the carrot-apple-nut muffins, so I decided that this weekend I would give them a go.
Success! There are two huge reasons why I love these muffins. One: there is only 2/3 cup of brown sugar in them as a sweetener (for non-bakers, that is not a lot at all). Two: the recipe contains both whole-wheat flour and wheat bran, without sacrificing taste or texture. (Next time I make them, I’m going to increase the amounts of whole-wheat flour and wheat bran slightly, and reduce the amount of all-purpose flour and see what happens.) With only 1/4 cup of melted butter, the majority of the moisture comes from the fruit and yogurt (or sour cream). The cinnamon-sugar sprinkling on top gives them just the right amount of crunch — I also threw some chia seeds into the batter for good measure, and a little extra crunch. These muffins would be great for kids — both for eating and also helping in the kitchen. My new game plan: make a batch of these on Sunday mornings and pack them for breakfast all week 🙂
Sunday Morning Muffins
(adapted from The Essentials of Baking by Williams Sonoma)
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup whole-wheat flour
1/4 cup oat or wheat bran
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
3 tablespoons chia seeds
2/3 cup firmly packed light or dark brown sugar
2 large eggs
1 1/2 cup whole-milk yogurt or sour cream
1/4 cup unsalted butter, melted
1 1/4 cups peeled, grated tart apple, such as Granny Smith (about 1 large)
1 1/4 cups peeled, grated carrot (about 2 medium)
3/4 cup raisins (or other dried fruit like cherries or cranberries)
2 tablespoons turbinado sugar mixed with 1 teaspoon cinnamon
Preheat the oven to 400F. Butter 18 standard muffin-pan cups or line them with paper liners.
In a large bowl, whisk together the flours, bran, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, chia seeds, and brown sugar.
In an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the eggs on low speed until blended, then beat in the yogurt (or sour cream) and melted butter. Add the dry ingredients and mix on low speed just until combined. Add the apple, carrot, and raisins and mix just until evenly distributed. Do not overmix or the muffins will become tough.
Use an ice-cream scoop to divide the batter evenly into the prepared muffin pans, filling each about 3/4 full. Top with the cinnamon-sugar mixture. Bake until a toothpick inserted into the center of the muffin comes out clean, about 18 minutes. Let cool on a wire rack for about 2 minutes, then turn the muffins out onto the rack. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 2 days or freeze for up to 1 month.
Makes about 18 muffins
Hungry for breakfast? There are more than 40 delicious recipes for breakfast that even kids can make in the American Girl Breakfast & Brunch Cookbook I edited 😉
Some days I find myself going along in a bit of a daze, going through the motions of the day and night while thinking about the details of each task but never looking up, not noticing or thinking about the bigger picture. Then something comes along and wakes me up from my fog. That happened the day Sarah Jessica Parker liked my skillet roast chicken.
This happened, of course, in our virtual world, but one that so closely intertwines with our reality some days that they seem to blur. It all started when my husband and I had friends over one Saturday night for dinner and I was craving roast chicken but bored with the way I always make it. So I turned to the Interwebs for inspiration and found Mark Bittman’s recipe for skillet roast chicken. Those who know me—and more likely, those who have just met me—know about my obsession with my cast-iron skillet. “You can toast bread in it! You can char veggies in it! You can make perfect pizza in it!” Apparently, you can also roast a whole chicken in it. Brilliant. So I stuffed a Meyer lemon in the chicken’s cavity (this is California, after all) along with a few cloves of peeled garlic, covered it with olive oil, salt, pepper, fresh herb sprigs, and a few thin slices of Meyer lemon, heated my skillet for about 20 minutes at 500F degrees, threw my prepared chicken onto the piping-hot skillet and basta! Straight to the oven it went to cook to a dark golden and crispy brown. I let it rest for 15 minutes (side note: my chef friend Andy in London lets his chicken rest for an hour, and since then I became a huge believer that red meat is not the only meat that benefits from resting time, when the juices that are stirred up during cooking can be reabsorbed back into the meat), then hacked into it with kitchen sheers, and it was perfect. Crispy skin, juicy meat, and bright and flavorful all around.
The next day, I took to Instagram to post said chicken. Later than most “look what I’m doing at this very moment!” posts on the ‘Gram, but sometimes that happens. (Just because I cooked it yesterday doesn’t make it any less delicious or shareable, in my humble opinion at least.) I can often be found rambling on about having a hashtag strategy or using hashtags and other tagging elements of Instagram to build and grow a brand on social media—to my clients, to friends, to anyone who will listen—but this time I actually remembered my own advice and tagged Mark Bittman in my post. A few days later when I was waiting to board a flight from Seattle to San Francisco, Instagram told me that not only had Mark Bittman liked my post, but he had also commented, “Just beautiful.” I admittedly became a little short of breath. Pathetic maybe, but genuinely excited definitely. I smiled the entire flight. But, it gets better.
A few days later, when I was casually minding my Instagram business, it told me that Mark had re-grammed my chicken! (Mom – that means he copied the picture on my account and put it on his account, too.) He has more than 52,000 followers, so his declaration of “So beautiful! Rg @whatisinmypurse” was monumental for my little Instagram account that count. Some new people found me, a lot of people saw my chicken, and I felt (for the first time in a very, very long time) successful. Silly, maybe. Getting exciting over an acclaimed photo of a chicken on an app is perhaps a bit trite, but as a recovering corporate executive turned aspiring food stylist, cookbook editor, and food writer, it was a big deal. That’s when one of the biggest differences between my old life and new life became more clear—the measurement of success is completely different. It was much more objective in my old life. In a corporation, when you are running teams and running projects, the proof is in the numbers: Profit and loss, year-over-year increases, revenue growth percentages, etc. etc. In a creative field like the one I’m in now, the proof is in the pudding, quite literally. Does it look good? Does it taste good? Are the directions clear? Is the photo inspiring? So comparing the two, or more commonly, trying to apply objective KPIs to a subjective medium is quite near impossible. But that’s what I was doing! That was the world I came from and that was the world I knew. It slowly started to sink in that I might actually know what I’m doing in this new life. But, it gets better.
A few days later, something sparked me to check on Mark’s post, mostly (let’s be honest) to see how many people had liked it. And then there it was: “liked by sarahjessicaparker” and below that, her comment, “Want now!” I almost fell over. (OK, I actually did fall over.) I have admired Sarah Jessica Parker since Girls Just Want to Have Fun came out, and then became a huge fan of hers from the beginning of the Sex and the City days–and still am. And then, she liked my chicken. I told a few people whom I thought would appreciate this cycle of events, and received a battery of congratulatory hoorays and cheers and awesome kudos from friends. But it took a little bit of time to really sink in. Through whatever webs in the social sphere that connected my chicken to SJP, the fact is that it happened, she saw it, she liked it, and she said so. Granted, she might have scanned the caption quickly and not realized that Mark didn’t cook this exact chicken. Who knows. What matters to me is that I cooked a chicken that made her take pause, piqued her interest, and lead her to take action. So I can finally say to myself, I cooked an f—ing awesome-looking chicken. I cook a lot of other awesome-looking (and tasting) dishes, but I rarely give myself credit for it. My husband can attest to this first hand. (As an aside, his response to SJP’s comment is perhaps the sweetest part of this whole story.) I should have been saying this to myself all along. But sometimes it takes someone without any bias, who is completely removed from the situation, to turn on the light bulb. It snapped me out of my fog.
So where do I go from here? For starters, I’ll be cooking chickens in my cast-iron skillet moving forward. And I will continue to sing its praises to anyone who will listen. (The latest innocent victims were a lovely couple we met at a wedding in NJ a few weeks ago.) And I will try to remind myself that I’m good at what I’m doing, and even if there are no daily, weekly, or monthly reports that tell me so, I can tell myself so. Why am I sharing this story with the rest of the world? Because I suspect that there are many of us who don’t give ourselves enough credit, who feel badly saying we are good at something, who feel that it’s obnoxious to cheerlead for yourself because society or specific people in our lives have made us feel that way. Or we’ve made ourselves feel that way. Whatever the reason, I’m promising myself to give myself more credit for my achievements and celebrate my successes. In fact, I might do just that tonight with a big piece of cake—and a skillet roast chicken.
Skillet Roast Chicken
Adapted from Mark Bittman
1 whole chicken (about 3 to 4 pounds)
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 lemons (preferably Meyer)
5 cloves garlic, peeled
About 6 sprigs fresh thyme (or other hearty herb, such as rosemary or oregano)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Put a large cast-iron skillet on a low rack in the oven and heat the oven to 500F degrees.
Prick one lemon with a fork or paring knife all over. Place it in the cavity of the chicken, along with the garlic cloves and 3 herb sprigs. Cut the other lemon into slices about ¼-inch thick, and set aside. Rub the chicken all over with the oil and sprinkle it generously with salt and pepper.
When the oven and skillet are hot (about 20 minutes), carefully put the chicken on the skillet, breast side up. Place the lemon slices and remaining herb sprigs on top of the chicken.
Roast for 15 minutes, then turn the oven temperature down to 350F degrees. Continue to roast until the chicken is golden brown and an instant-read thermometer inserted into the meaty part of the thigh reads 155 to 165 degrees, about an hour total depending on your oven. Occasionally use a large spoon to spoon the drippings over the chicken during cooking (this will make the skin even crispier).
Remove the skillet from the oven and tip the pan to let the juices flow from the chicken’s cavity into the pan. Spoon the juices over the top of the chicken. Transfer the chicken to a platter, cover with foil, and let it rest for at least 10 minutes. Carve and serve.
(I like to serve this chicken with oven-roasted new potatoes and a big seasonal salad.)