Oh my. That effort wasn't worth its salt in succulent flesh. Not that the flesh wasn't juicy. For sure, I got what I asked for, a squirting bird. But there were so many other disappointing qualities born by my brined and roasted chicken that I doubt I'll return to this process, at least until its memory fades. I felt like I was eating slices of cured, salty, pink ham. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) Even the texture was different. Gone were the discreet slivers of cream-colored muscle fiber that I (used to) take enjoyment threading off the breast. Gone was a brown, crispy skin. Gone were those chewy pockets of brown leg, oh yes, how I love a bit of brown leg. Gone! My bird was homogenized ... in color, taste, texture. Were it not for its recognizable bird-like appendages, I might be convinced I was consuming some sort of hammy cold cut (a.k.a. lunchmeat, deli, ... bologna!)
Of course, I could give it another go, tweak the salt/sugar percentages, the brining time, the solvent source (Eric's apple cider solvent sounds like a good choice for a pork brine). I mean, brining does seem to have its following in culinary esoterica.
I guess I'm just an unpreserved old bird who has a soft spot for unpreserved old birds.