Dear readers, for the first time ever, I am writing a recipe. The dish is green garbanzo soup, a real seasonal palate-stunner. I invented it last weekend, when my girlfriend and I elected to have some friends over for dinner. Since we both were going to be busy during the day preceding the occasion, we shopped and did much of the cooking the night before. After drinking a few beers at the 500 Club and watching the wurst (Germany) come up short against the hams (Spain), I strolled down to Bi-Rite to rustle up ingredients: for the soup, a huge bag of garbanzos in their fuzzy green shells, a quart of chicken stock, a head of garlic, a leek, and way more hazelnuts than I needed. I had butter and good olive oil at home. I’d also stumbled across a few threads of tired-looking saffron tucked away in a cupboard.

I was all set. We had lots of dishes to prepare, of course, but the night before I was focused on crafting an enticing, verdant elixir with which to prime the appetites of our guests -- prior to the impending assault of assorted cheeses, breads, olives, pickled peppers, octopus and tomato salad, roasted corn relish, watermelon with salt, and two bastardized briks -- one with ancho-and-roasted tomato-stewed heritage pork, currants, and cilantro, and the other with morels, thyme, feta, beet greens, chard, and kale.

From green garlic shoots, to slender asparagus, to sweet early-season cherry tomatoes, I have, with regard to the realm of edible vegetation, a tendency to prize fresh young things. When I saw the green garbanzos nestled like weird little grubs in a big basket in the Bi-Rite produce case, I was consumed by the desire to harness their youth, pea-like flavor, and agreeably grassy pallor, and express them fully and vigorously in a simple yet well-calibrated dish. To work such magic, I began by chopping the leek and letting it slowly fall apart in a pot glazed over with a half-stick of butter. Meanwhile, I roasted four unpeeled cloves of garlic on a hot, dry cast-iron skillet, just the way Rick Bayless taught me. When the peels were flaking off, the exterior blackened in places, and the cloves delectably squishy to the touch, I turned off the burner, let them cool, peeled them, and stirred them into the pot with the creamy, cooked-down leeks. I added the stock, about a quart of water, and the saffron. Then, I realized I had forgotten to separate the beans from their pods. Cursing, I turned off the other burner, grabbed the bag of beans, and got to work.

About an hour, two beers, and two-and-a-half episodes of Eastbound and Down later, I shelled the last bean and headed back to the kitchen. When I heated up the pot again, I realized I’d severely misjudged the amount of beans I’d need. Each relatively large pod contains just one or two tiny pellets. I would have required a wheelbarrow to haul the quantity of beans I truly needed, and an entire television series to make shelling so many bearable. Cursing, I flung open the fridge. I would have to improvise. I spied half a head of cauliflower. The beans would, I thought, dance prettily with such fair white curds as a partner. I hacked the cauliflower up rather brutally and tossed it in the pot with the beans for a steamy dip. Fifteen minutes later, after a nice simmer, everything was tender. I turned off the heat and added salt and pepper.

That’s when I started -- as Dave Chappelle would say -- f**king up. Using a small, lidless blender better suited to smoothie-making instead of a food processor (ours fell prey to mold a few months ago), I tried to do the soup in four or five very small batches, covering the top with a plate. This was happening after 11:00 p.m., around the time I become capable of doing nothing besides sleeping, drinking, or watching movies requiring little intellectual investment. I should not have been cooking really, much less handling hot liquids. I accidentally pressed the “liquify” button instead of “puree”, and a surge of pale green came bubbling up, rattling the plate, sending a steaming froth cascading out and across the table and floor. I screamed like a small spoiled child, clutching my seared right forearm with my left hand, also incidentally very badly burned. Sickly drops flecked the wall next to the blender. I suddenly realized the front of my shirt was hot, wet, and green. Cursing, I dived for a towel. After mopping up what I could see in my exhausted haze, I limped off to bed.

I awoke to find a trail of ants the size and shape of a patch of body hair churning around the area of floor I’d soiled with soup and failed to properly clean. On the other hand, once strained, the soup -- now cool and the appealing color of green tea ice cream -- tasted fantastic -- rich and lively, with depth provided by the roasted garlic and the chicken stock, texture courtesy of butter and my hapless blender, the beans and cauliflower intertwined in a nutty, herbaceous, harmonious embrace. Later that night, we would serve it in tiny to-go espresso cups with toasted hazelnut crumbles, finely chopped parsley, and neat drizzles of olive oil. I botched the first cup by accidentally dumping in about a shot or two of oil -- and cursed -- but the rest turned out fine -- once I let the lady handle the pouring. Out in the dining room, conversation paused. Everyone was quiet, sipping away. My hand and forearm throbbed a little bit. I was sweating under my apron. So much shelling, so much spilling, so much cursing -- and yet the soup managed to hold. It was good, the way I’d wanted it to be. Things don’t always fall apart. The process of creating something so simple and easy might have been unnecessarily tortured and chaotic, but the result, blessedly, was pure and refined, even serene -- swirling green peace in the bottom of a soup spoon.

When I was a kid, my mom would make these fabulous and enormous dinners when family and friends came to our house. She’d work for two days making heaping piles of meatballs, stuffed artichokes, baked ziti, eggplant Parmesan, and a host of other delicious Italian dishes. I loved all these dishes (and still do) but came to really appreciate the easy simplicity of her baked chicken and Italian sausage dish once I started hosting my own parties.

Roasted chicken and sausage is really the perfect meal for a crowd (although it’s also pretty darn good for a family dinner). First of all, it’s incredibly easy to make and you can finish most of the dish before your guests come over. Then, as the dish cooks, you get the extra benefit of having your home infused with the lovely aroma of roasted meat that will prime your guests for their upcoming meal. Another bonus is that it’s an economical meal to serve to a large group.

Easy and affordable are great, but in the end, it’s really about taste. The biggest reason I make this dish is because I love chicken and sausage, and in this dish, the comforting appeal of roasted chicken is intermingled with the savory deliciousness of baked sausage to form a beautiful marriage of flavor. I often use Molinari sweet Italian sausage from Piedmont Grocery. I really like the flavor of this sausage, as well as the fact that Molinari and Sons is a San Francisco company that has been selling sausages locally since 1896.

For the chicken, I use a nice organic Petaluma Poultry Rosie, also from Piedmont Grocery. It warms my heart to think of all those little chickens running around outdoors, gobbling up organic corn and soybeans before they meet that great chicken in the sky. As a mother, I appreciate the fact that there aren't hormones in it, and, as someone who tries to buy locally, I love that it's sustainably farmed nearby.

I ask my butcher to cut my Rosies (I usually make two for a dinner party) into eight pieces each (legs, thighs, and quartered breasts). When I get home, I split these into two baking dishes. I then halve my sausages so they are smaller. Most people will eat one half sausage with a piece of chicken, so it’s easier to cut them up before you cook them. Cutting the sausages also helps those lovely pork juices spill into and fuse with the chicken drippings. I then divide the sausages into the two baking dishes and cover everything with a healthy portion of extra virgin olive oil. I toss on some sea salt and freshly cracked pepper to season the meat, and then throw on some fresh rosemary. I round the seasonings out by grating off the zest of a lemon with my zester/grater. Now comes the fun part -– I mix it all up with my hands, making sure that the olive oil and seasoning are massaged under the chicken skin and onto the actual meat. My kids often want to do this, but I’m too paranoid to let them touch raw meat. Sorry, girls. Maybe when you're sixteen.

After the meats, olive oils, and seasonings commingle for at least an hour in the refrigerator (and up to a day), I'm ready to cook. While preheating the oven, I thickly slice some russet potatoes and slip them under the chicken and sausages. I’ve found that by tucking these under the meat, they capture the pan juices, which seasons the potatoes. Also, as the potatoes sit at the bottom of the pan, the bottoms crisp during baking. I then add wedges of yellow onions, which help to flavor the meat and also caramelize in the oven. Finally, after the dish is about half finished, I add a few red and yellow peppers, their sweet fresh flavor nicely accenting the roasted meat.

I’ve served this dish probably over 50 times. It’s perfect for family meals, as most kids love chicken and sausage, but you can also lay everything out nicely on a pretty platter for grown up dinners. Served with a nice bottle of wine, some crunchy Italian bread, and a pretty salad, it's the perfect dish for company. Now I know why my mom made it all the time.

Baked Chicken and Italian Sausage

Ingredients
2 Rosie chickens cut up
8 Mild Italian Molinari sausages
3 Medium yellow onions
6 Large russet potatoes
2 Tbsp rosemary leaves
2/3 Cup extra virgin olive oil (This measurement can vary. You want to use enough oil to thoroughly coat the meat without making it super oily. Use your best judgment.)
The zest from one large lemon
3 Large red or yellow peppers
1 Tsp Salt and Pepper each

Preparation

1. Divide chickens and sausages into two baking pans and top with the rosemary, salt, pepper and lemon zest, along with enough olive oil to thoroughly coat the meat (Divide everything between the two pans).
2. Mix seasonings into the meat with your hands, being sure to get the seasoned oil under the chicken skin and onto the meat.
3. Let marinate for at least an hour and up to a day in the refrigerator (if you don’t have time, you can bake it immediately, but the chicken will have more of a lemony-rosemary taste if it marinates first).
4. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
5. Peal potatoes and cut them into ¼-inch thick slices
6. Slide potato slices under the chicken and sausage pieces.
7. Chop onions into wedges and add them to the mix.
8. Drizzle more olive oil on top.
9. Cover pans with aluminum foil and bake for a half hour.
10. After a half hour has passed, uncover the pans and cook for another 15 minutes.
11. Remove the pans from the oven to add the red and yellow peppers. Turn the sausages over so the undersides get a chance to brown.
12. Bake for another 5-15 minutes or until the chicken and sausage are browned and reach 170 degrees.
13. Place bread in the oven for about five minutes to heat it.
14. Serve on a platter with the bread.