Confession: I love chicken.

No, I'm not talking about the ugly, feathered creature with the beady eyes, nasty scaly clawed feet and hideous scream in the morning (that is supposed to romantically wake you up, but really only makes you want to get up for the single reason so you can wring its neck).

Instead, my affection extends to the fowl you find at the market: that plump little poultry body, sans head, claws and feathers, with skin so smooth and clean, in its moist flesh lurking the promise of a thousand delicious dishes.

I realize the only difference between the two is that one is dead, and the other is (momentarily still) alive.

Be that as it may ...

The pinnacle of chicken goodness is most definitely the roasted whole chicken. This was proven to me beyond doubt at the tender age of 16, when I was backpacking on my own for the first time, and found myself in Rome one day.

Fresh off the train and just barely settled into my charmingly bare (but very cheap) room in the city's red light district, I went out in search of something to eat. I was ravenous. Following my olfactory sense, not far away, I found a simple shop whose sole merchandise was roasted chicken. Hundreds of them merrily turned on their spits, in various stages of tanness. Being Italian-language-challenged at the time, I nonetheless obtained one by pointing at the rotisserie and holding out some Lira.

There was no time to further forage for side dishes. My stomach demanded immediate satisfaction. So I returned to my room, the hot chicken in the plastic bag tantalizing my senses with every step. As I popped the bag down on the simple table, I realized I had no plate, no cutlery, no napkins. Having been raised with impeccable table manners, I was momentarily mortified. Then I decided "Oh, what the hell", pulled the chicken out of the bag - and yes, unceremoniously tore a leg off with my bare hands.

I still remember very acutely the sensation of that very first bite: sinking my teeth into the moist goodness of that chicken leg, the feeling of crispy skin between them, my mouth filling with herby and salty juices, the tender flesh like silk on my tongue. My taste buds were dancing the conga.

And after that first taste, there was no stopping me. I cradled the entire fowl in my hands and savagely dug into it, tearing at its meat with fingers and teeth, not in the least caring about the mess I was making. Every bite, every morsel, was pure culinary ecstasy.

Only after I had ate my fill and sat there, contently licking the last bits off my fingers, did I consider the carcass on the table. What marvelous animal, I pondered - transformed with spices and a rotisserie into the most delicious, filling, and satisfying, yet simple meal anyone could ever enjoy. Without the distraction of side dishes, I was also for the first time allowed to truly appreciate the flavors to their fullest.

And I realized that if properly attended to, seasoned and cooked, chicken had to be the pinnacle of protein, the king of culinary satisfaction. Some might argue that chicken is rather flavorless and neutral in texture, and they are right. But that's exactly what makes it so wonderful: its blank canvas properties. With chicken, you can freely and uninhibitedly create and experiment in the kitchen. What's better than that?

And maybe, during those last 10 minutes, you may have briefly wondered why I have engaged in this love-struck rant over poultry. The answer is simple, of course: I currently have my very own chicken - spiked with garlic, and massaged with olive oil, fresh thyme, rosemary and other spices - roasting away on the table-top rotisserie. As a latest obsession, it's of the organic, happy-free-range kind - because I figured out they taste so much better. The scent wafting through the air is getting me hungry too.

Hm. I better go eat it. Savagely. And without side dishes.