chicken potpie

I’ve always been curious about chicken potpie. You might even call it a fantasy. That gooey creamy American-midwestern Waspy dish that mom NEVER made. With two sticks (plus) of butter, heavy cream and frozen peas. It had no place in our kitchen when I was growing up. Or to be honest, in my kitchen as an adult. Hence the fantasy I guess.

Scrolling through chicken dishes on the NYT website however—which is yes a pastime these days, sadly—I came across Melissa Clark’s “White Chicken Potpie” recipe and thought—white meat, so it must be healthy. Two and a half sticks of butter later I know otherwise. At the time however it seemed doable, and like a good Sunday project. Michael had given it his casual thumbs up and his enthusiasm got me over the indecision hump.

So I bought the buttermilk (white!) and the chicken (white!) and the leeks (almost white!) and set my sights on Melissa’s recipe.

A couple of hours and too many dishes later, it was too late to turn back, and soon I had chicken potpie, an ultimately foreign dish (to me) which was so so delicious. Yes, it was too much butter and too much cream, and I was already thinking how do I turn this into something healthier next time. I mean, I had trouble lifting the dish out of the oven, it was so heavy.

I called the kids into the kitchen for dinner, and I immediately sensed failure. There were cooked carrots, frozen peas and biscuits—something for everyone to hate. Maybe I should have made those tofu tacos! Did I read enough reviews? My Jew-anxiety was on red alert.

Soon enough Nate had snubbed his nose which triggered Michael to double down on his picky eater issues—”But mom spent two hours making dinner!” which then sent Nate into a tailspin and eventually into his room, punished for not even being willing to try a bite. Mack took one bite and politely asked for a bagel. Michael and I ate our share while Nate was in his room and Mack was solemn. I have to admit though—it was delicious. Decadent, yes, but satisfying, especially the biscuit topping. (I’m a biscuit girl—the highlight of NOLA for me is the biscuits and grits.)

Finally, we let Nate out and gave him a bagel too. There was so much cleanup during which time Michael kindly suggested that we didn’t need to save the leftovers. But of course, I did save them—stashed in the fridge in the garage, ready for me to pull out one day and devour. Perhaps alone. Because no one else deserves to relive the trauma of white chicken potpie. The end.