Yesterday's roast chicken — tomorrow's pot, not a sad fridge shelf

What sits on the shelf in the morning

On Sunday I roast a whole bird or drumsticks — an ordinary British supper, potatoes beside it, carrots in the same tin. By Monday the plate holds bones, skin, bits nobody wants with a fork. It still smells of roast, not of fridge. If it smells sour or oddly sweet — I do not cook it. Binning food hurts; making a family of six ill hurts more. I do not wave a thermometer or give lectures. Nose and eye — same as with fish and milk. The carcass goes into the pot at once; I do not leave it 'one more day' bare on a plate: it dries and then will not give a proper stock.

How I strip it, and what goes in the pot

I pull the meat off with my hands while it is still a little warm from the evening, or cold in the morning — whichever happens. Larger pieces into a bowl for supper, the scraps too. Bones, back, neck if we had one — into the pot. Cold tap water to cover. Onion halved, not polished to a shine: the skin gives colour. Carrot — in big chunks. A bay leaf, a few peppercorns from the jar that already lives by the hob. Salt — a little at the start, I finish at the end: water boils off. Medium heat. When it boils I skim the foam with a spoon. Not a clear restaurant stock. Home stock: a little cloudy, smelling of chicken and onion. It simmers an hour or an hour and a half while the children do homework. Then I strain into another pot and press the bones with a spoon — there is still juice. Meat goes back in in pieces. Sometimes a handful of frozen peas from Tesco — they already sit in the freezer; I do not run out only for soup.

When it is still fine, and when it is not

Sunday's roast on Monday is fine if the night was in the fridge under a lid or wrap, not on a warm hob 'until morning'. On Tuesday I still look and smell. By Wednesday I stop playing: either freeze a portion of stock on day one, or enough is enough. I do not reboil the same soup five times 'to be safe' — each time the taste goes, and the habit is odd. Heat it — eat it. A little left — I finish it myself at lunch; I do not leave a spoonful in the pot for another day.

Short notes from this hob

• Carcass into the pot the same day — do not dry it on a plate
• Onion with skin, carrot in chunks, bay — no blog checklist
• Skim the foam; finish the salt at the end
• Meat back in pieces; peas only if they already sit in the freezer
• If the smell doubts you — do not cook it

What I do not do

I do not call it a detox. I do not weigh grams of protein. I do not buy a 'stock pack' for three pounds when the carcass is already here. I do not tip the fat down the sink with boiling water — I lift it with a spoon once cold, into paper, into the bin. And I do not pretend every Monday is restaurant consommé. It is a pot after Sunday. If guests ate every bone — I simply buy a bird for soup another day. No drama.

From this same kitchen

I already wrote about dates and the nose in how to tell with your eyes that food is still alive, and in how to store so you are not binning it. Soup from leftovers is not a separate club. The rest of the kitchen notes sit beside it. Photo: Biel Heinrich, Pexels.