In Melanie Dunea’s efficient, if morbid, My Last Supper, 50 of the world’s more accomplished chefs reveal what they would choose to eat during their last, earthly meal. Some of the responses are appropriately extravagant—grand menus of luxury ingredients and rare vintages. Others are self-consciously restrained, although, as Eric Ripert demonstrates, not necessarily humble: “It would be a simple dish, a slice of toasted country bread, some olive oil, shaved black truffle, rock salt, and black pepper.” The common theme found in the bulk of fictitious last meals, though, is hit upon in the forward, written by author and food personality Anthony Bourdain: if cooking is a demonstration of control, eating requires submission. I think Bourdain is on to something; my last meal would be a roasted chicken, a dish that begins with control but, somewhere near the halfway point, resolves to submission.

The temptation is to write romantically about the experience that comes with roasting hundreds of chickens—the way the thighs plump and the skin tightens, the correct hue of running juices, the telltale smell, even the slight alteration in sound that signals a chicken is approaching doneness. But the novice wants temperatures and times, and many modern ovens are digitalized to the point of requiring, at the very least, an estimate of either before they will operate. I will say this: Chickens tolerate high heat but universally begin drying out with cooking times in excess of 90 minutes. My ideal scenario is a chicken that has been in the oven for one hour at around 465 degrees. Of course that means almost nothing considering oven performance varies as much as that other shifting variable: chicken weight.

Chickens are categorized by their fate: fryers and roasters. The former refers to retail weights between 2 1/2 pounds and 3 1/2 pounds, the latter from 3 1/2 pounds to five pounds or so. There is no discernible difference in flavor, so the choice is one of volume, or, as I’ve discovered, number of a particular part. I now prefer two small fryers to one large roaster because four legs are better than two. They also cook more quickly and at slightly higher heat. Capons (castrated males) and roosters (mature birds that have had their way with countless hens) can also be delicious but require special preparations. Namely, the fat that renders from a plump capon will need managing during the roast, and roosters are too tough to do anything to but stew.

The canard about something mild tasting just like chicken is a sure sign that something is going dramatically wrong with most chickens. A compound butter is a good corrective. An average roaster needs a quarter pound of softened butter with a fresh herb mixture of rosemary, thyme, tarragon and parsley. The idea is to make butter and chicken intimate: inside, outside, under skin, beneath wings and between thigh and breast—spare no crevice. As for elaborate trussing, I find tucking the wingtips and a simple square knot around the legs is sufficient. Season with salt and pepper and let sit at room temperature for half an hour. Roast.

But don't just roast. Roast! Timid hovering will make for an uncertain chicken. Peering through the oven window will lead to opening the door, which in turn will encourage the use of a thermometer, a device that takes just long enough for the roast to lose its momentum, all but guaranteeing pallid skin and less succulent flesh. Whatever control exists at the outset—variables of weight, seasoning and temperature—must be traded for submission to the fact of a chicken in a hot oven once the door is shut. Do this enough and any fear of under or overcooking will dissipate. As for fear of last meals? A good chicken might just cure that, too.