Spatchcocked Chicken with Herbs and Mustard

The kitchen smells of mustard and thyme and something catching in the heat of the oven. It's been forty minutes. The skin has gone deep gold, blistered where the mustard has caramelised, the herbs darkened at the edges. This is not a Sunday roast. It's a Wednesday bird, faster and more direct, split flat on the board and cooked in the time it takes to make a salad and set the table.

Spatchcocking is the best thing you can do to a chicken if you haven't got two hours to spare. You cut the backbone out, press the whole thing flat, and suddenly it roasts in under an hour with every inch of skin exposed to the heat. No pale, flabby patches. No fighting with string. Just a bird that lies flat and cooks evenly and comes out with the kind of all-over crispness that a whole roast can only dream about.

The mustard does two things. It seasons the meat from the outside in, sharp and savoury, and it helps the skin turn properly golden, almost lacquered. Mix it with garlic and whatever herbs the garden has going: thyme and rosemary if they're there, but don't go to war over it. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. Use what you've got and trust your nose.

I wrote it down in the notebook last autumn. "Spatchcocked. Mustard. Thyme from the pot by the door. Enough for four, just." That's all it needed.