Culinary Tales: Broth out of anything & chicken pot pie

Hi sweetie,

You're in the other room watching cartoons, and I'm filling the fifteen minutes before I pull the chicken pot pie out of the oven.  The chicken pot pie (CPP) that you say, is The Best, as in "Mommy, you make The Best Chicken Pot Pie."

Really, as a Mom, that is such a symphony to my ears, to hear that something I make is the best, and it's also in the healthy food category.

I think today's may top the charts, even in my own biased opinion, and it's time to fill you in on a couple secrets.

First, it starts with the leftover meat on a Beer Can Chicken cooked (by me) 5 days ago, and the anticipation, of you and Daddy, who both clamored for CPP when you knew leftover chicken was hanging out in the refrigerator.

The Beer Can Chicken adventures started as a happy accident, meaning warm weather in San Francisco, my desire to roast a whole chicken and not heat up the kitchen, and the presence of a cheap can of beer in the fridge.  Turned out to be the most moist chicken I've ever, EVER made. 

So I had made a beer can chicken last Sunday, during the third game of the world series, where the Giants beat the Lions (and won the series in game four, hello, goodnight!), which again turned out marvelously, and the leftovers found their way into more than one quesadilla, until today when the fate of the chicken was sealed, as I even had, by another happy accident, made a double recipe of gluten free pie crust when I made a homemade pumpkin pie earlier in the week.

Got all those tricks so far?  There are more, because one of the real secret ingredients in the CPP is the broth, which was homemade from the bones of said BCC plus the vegetables ready for broth but beyond table consumption.  Usually it's the normal cast of characters; onion, celery, carrots, and whatever else seems appropriate.  Today was most unusual, to astonishing yummy results:

Most of a sprouting onion, sprouting top omitted, plus the quarter of an onion hanging out in the fridge
Beet greens, from yellow beets roasted last weekend
Chunks of a large yam
About a teaspoon of poultry seasoning
Half a teaspoon of sea salt
And of course, the bones of said BCC, skin omitted, and meat removed

No joke, I truly believe that broth can be made out of anything.  I've been known to throw golden beets in as well (red would probably taste okay, but the color would be suspicious!), stalks of broccoli, and occasionally a bell pepper or two, but something about the yams that sweetened the broth ... total yum!

So there's the big secret, I type as the timer goes off for the masterpiece in the oven.  

Back again, as the CPP is resting on top of the stove...

As for the CPP recipe, I start with the Better Homes & Gardens cookbook recipe, changing a few things up so it looks like this:

1/2 cup or so of chopped onion ... a little more is fine
1/2 c small dice mushrooms if you've got them, this time my mushrooms were beyond even broth stage so I 4 Tb Butter, not margarine (because I have a fondness for real butter, thank you)
Saute all of the above until the onions & mushrooms are soft, then add:

3 Tb of cornstarch for 1/3 cup flour (to make it GF, of course)
1/2 teaspoon of poultry seasoning
1/2 teaspoon salt (a bit more if you used unsalted butter)
Stir until mixed well, then add

2 cups of the chicken broth you made earlier
3/4 cup milk

Heat until bubbly and a bit thicker than when you started.  While you're waiting, cook the veggies:

I simmer these in a small amount of water for 3-ish minutes until tender but not mushy
1 large carrot diced (not frozen - ack!)
2 medium yellow potatoes, same size dice as the carrots
Some amount of frozen peas (which are better frozen, unless super-fresh from the backyard)


When the onion/broth mixture is bubbly and the veggies are cooked, add the veggies, to the broth mix and add:
2 cups torn or chopped chicken

Heat on the stove until it's bubbly again, pour into a pie dish, cover with the pie crust, and cook for 15 min @450 degrees. 

I know I'm leaving out the pie crust recipe ... I follow the one in this phenomenal GF cookbook:
Gluten-Free Baking Classics by Annalise G. Roberts

There you have it ... The Best, according to you and Daddy, Chicken Pot Pie!

love,
always,
Mommy

Third grade evaluation

To my fabulous kid,

Although your teachers could not come right out and say it, my motherly instincts are telling me they have joined the Ava Fan Club.

I swear I think they had to look long and hard to find things that could remotely be construed as constructive criticism. 

Here's what they said, paraphrased:

+ You are an enormous bundle of energy in a tiny frame.  I shared with them my Aladdin analogy:
"Enormous colossal power; itty-bitty lamp."   They agreed and wrote that down to remember.

+ You're great at starting a task and focusing on it through completion.

+ Your math skills are great, not only do you grasp concepts quickly and correctly, you adapt one concept to another example.

+ You ask really good, thought-provoking questions in class and have become less shy about speaking up.

+ You help other kids.  You were paired up with another girl for Writer's Workshop and helped her come up with a story to write. 

+ You're not worried or obsessed with if you're liked by the other kids, and consequently, play with whoever wants to play, or just play by yourself.  Case in point - at recess you started hula-hooping by yourself. Another girl joined you after a while.  A couple weeks pass and now all of the third grade girls (5 of you) have formed with your asst. teacher a "Hula Hoop Club" that is girls-only, except once a month boys can join.

+ You're creative, inventive, eager, and enthusiastic. 

+ Here's the fun constructive bits.  Sometimes you get so convinced that you are right, that you have a hard time letting go to see the correct method.  Daddy and I suggested that your teachers try negotiating with you, showing you their way along side yours and compare.  They liked that, I'm grateful to say.  They also said that sometimes you are so motivated to do a science experiment that you aren't willing to outline your method for scientific testing.  Daddy and I got the message - slow down!    So we are taking that to heart and we're going to try slowing down too.

+ Reading.  Here's the funny part.  What they said is that the books you like to read (Ivy & Bean & the Fairies Series) is actually one step below your actual reading level.  You also "read" the books quickly, but miss many details by going too fast.  There's that slow down theme again!  I read a lot, and I read fast, and I thought about how many details I miss because I want to get to the action.  I'm learning to read slower as I'm writing my book because thinking of the right adjective for a sentence gives me appreciation for the painstaking effort of other authors finding the write adjective or verb. 

We're so thrilled you love school again, love reading again, and have no reluctance getting out the door in the morning.  Sure, the public school price tag was nice, and even the parochial school price tag was less than our independent school now, but stoking the fire of your desire to learn for likely the rest of your life will be a gift, I'm sure, that yields dividends greater than my shares of Apple stock.

I love you.  You make me proud, every single day.

Mommy  

Eight

Oh my sweet girl, my precocious, temperamental, wonderful, emotional, everything girl. You are eight today.

If I can take a swim in nostalgia for a moment, eight years ago today I was resting in a hospital room, which unlike my birthing room, did not have bridge to bridge views of San Francisco, but it did, however, have you, swaddled in a hospital blanket, wearing a precious pink, white, and blue striped cap, sleeping next to me in a hospital crib. Or maybe you were laying with me. Hard to remember 8 years ago what happened at 8:05PM.

Over the past eight years I have fragments of memories, delicious moments in time some for their delight, some for their weight. My memory thrives on the photographs I've taken, many in your first couple years, fewer as the years go on. Then there is the tangible evidence, like the two holes above the door way to the bedrooms, where Daddy once drilled support for your bouncer. You loved that thing! I remember some of your words for their uniqueness, like Bodelee for blueberry, badeedalee for strawberry. I think your first word was Mama, but I don't remember the first time you said it. Now you have so much to say, sometimes thoughts and ideas so poignant I wish I'd wrote them down, but it's usually while I'm driving.

I remember your monkey scoot, when I worried briefly you'd have a speech impediment if you didn't crawl - but then you did, briefly, before walking, those steps I remember well because I captured them on video. So often I'll see kids at that barely walking stage with this wild look on their face, as if to say "Look what these can do!" Now, you ride a razor scooter as if you were born to it; but not a bike without training wheels, there's a price we pay for hills in the city!

I don't remember when I stopped being the one you always ran to who could solve all problems, to the one you get mad at so easily (along with Daddy), when you run from us into your room, and yell with wet eyes, "Go Away!" The transition from ally to intermittent enemy is heart breaking.

The rate you're learning is astounding, leaping into cursive writing, multiplication, and with just a bit of studying getting 20/20 correct on weekly spelling tests. I'm a bit sad that reading got demoted from pleasure to chore, perhaps with the requisite weekly reading log (aka 1 page book report). Sometimes though, on the nights you lay down with me first, you'll ask me to read my book to you, which is often a YA fantasy. I read until my mouth is parched and I'm tired, or you're asleep.

You still like school, but you don't love school, the way you loved your last school. I hope it's just your age, as there's more work to do and focus and concentration required. It's so hard sometimes as a parent to trust I've made the right choices for you, but to Daddy and I, it's not safe at your old school yet.

For these few days though, you're at Disneyland with our friends and their daughter; not your first trip away from us, but your first that didn't include family. We measured you on your growth chart behind the door: 44 1/2 inches, tall enough for nearly all the rides. I remember going to the amusement park in Vallejo with you, where you met the requirement only for the kids rides. Or even on our last trip to Disneyland, on your 4th birthday, we were limited to Dumbo, Teacups, and Mr. Toad. Now I can only imagine what you're riding.

Along with your birthday, Daddy and I are pondering what new responsibilities you may be ready for to balance your growth and sometimes sullen attitude. It's such a fragile line to walk between giving in to your requests and forcing our decisions on you, but Daddy and I both believe we're not doing you any favors if we do everything you want.

Mostly though, the house is quiet tonight with you and Daddy gone. Almost lonely quiet.

I love you, big girl, you are my favorite second grader in this universe, and all of the others that exist.

Mommy
p.s. within a month of your birthday, you abandoned your bike's training wheels!

Christian-ish, Christian-lite

Hi sweet girl,

Since I last wrote, the world has shifted, rotated, and shifted again resulting in:

• A new school for you (public charter to private Catholic)
• A new job for me (from consulting the past year to full time for one great place)
• Daddy's 40th birthday is tomorrow
• Well, that's about it, but perhaps it's enough.

First, in January, we changed your school. We loved the families and community at previous school, your teacher was wonderful, but ... of course there's a "but," right? We hit our tolerance level for chaos in December when the residential buildings adjacent to the school caught on fire, buildings that happened to be built in the early 1900s, when, as you may/may not know, asbestos was applied liberally during construction. Daddy wasn't convinced the grounds would be clean enough, and although I thought he was blowing the problem out of proportion at first, I later came to agree. Add to that retrofit construction, a parent-run board, a 30-40 minute commute to your school (one way!), and we hit our boiling point.

We showed up at your old school on the first day after winter break, skeptical, and although the inside had been cleaned, the playground was dusted with ashes. Tests were done, asbestos wasn't found in the air, but Daddy said "not good enough" and back home we went, for two. long. looooonnnngggg. weeks of independent study. After the first week, more tests were run at the school, we went back to visit, but still no, we weren't convinced, and began the search for a new school. Public? We pondered. We could chance an opening at a public school, but the lottery system tweaks public school normalcy, and there wasn't anywhere we thought ideal. One we liked, but had a start time of 7:30. We're early risers, but not that early, and that had a 20 minute commute, at least.

We thought of places where you had friends, and eventually agreed, although I swore I'd never want you in a private school, to go visit the school where you already knew 4 or 5 kids. Private. Catholic. School.

We did like it, even the uniforms, the smallness (<300 K-8), the organization. We were surprised we liked it. We came at PE time (another plus, a real, live PE teacher twice a week!), and as soon as they could, three of your friends ran up and hugged you. The classroom layout was typical for my generation - rows of short desks, storage area under the seat. The desks were likely built in the 1960s - when metal and wood were standard materials. At the charter, you didn't have desks, you had seating around tables and "morning meetings" in a circle, sitting with your legs crossed.

It wasn't an easy choice, especially when it came time to fill out the application and I had to write in what religion you, Daddy, and I are.

I haven't tried to summarize my religion in a long time. I don't claim residency in any one religion, but pick and choose my favorite entree's from the smorgasbord. I've kept one foot in the faith healing tradition I gleaned from Christian Science as a child, but liberally apply nutrition and listening to my body (i.e. if I have a headache, I may ask for help from the Divine, but also drink a lot of water, rest in darkness, and take ibuprofen as a last resort). I've also kept the belief in a kind, loving, wonderful Mother/Father God, also thanks to CS.

But I've also practiced yoga for over a dozen years now, and have said often that I find the divine in a yoga class, when all voices are joined in "Om" - the single syllable encompassing all that exists. I find my faith in my breathing, in meditation, and to quote Anne Lamott (hopefully correctly), my favorite prayers are "please help" and "thank you."

When I feel like a problem is bigger than me, my prayers go out to "Those On Duty," meaning any Divine being listening and waiting for my call. Is it irreverent to think there's a call bank up in the sky, with Angels and other dieties poised to answer my silent call? Or is it faith? Sometimes my prayers go loud and emotional, right to God-with-a-capital-G.

And there's Jesus. Yes, I think Jesus is a child of God, but I also think I am. The miracles he did were miraculous, but I've studied enough yogis to know he's not the first. Maybe he's on that call bank sometimes too, and for that I'm grateful.

So I stared at that box, where I had to summarize my religion. I asked Daddy, who gave his standard answer "I am God." I wanted to put something that gave us a decent chance of acceptance, without compromising my all-encompassing beliefs. Christian-ish? Christian-light? I seriously pondered these answers, but finally seceded with a simple "Christian," because trying to put my real answer, as you can see above, won't fit on a line half the length of an 8 1/2 by 11 size page.

We haven't felt the weight, so much, of the Catholicism in your school. You and I, minus Daddy (who was skiing) went to mass at the adjacent church a few weeks back, and after the sit down, stand up, kneel, repeat "Y" after the priest says "X" -- which I didn't know, obviously, you asked me, with more patience than I thought possible, "Mommy, how long do we have to do this?"

"I don't know..." I said, with a glimmer of amusement. I looked up at that big sculpture of Jesus half-dead on the cross, and thought, Really? This is supposed to inspire me? I was reminded of something I read, pardon me for forgetting the source (maybe Chopra?), of wondering why Jesus was portrayed often at his death. Why not sitting peacefully, communing with the Divine? I looked up at him on the cross and felt sad, but perhaps that's the point. I thought, unless Ava really wants to, I don't have a big desire to return. I can love God, Jesus, and everyone else on the rotation as I'm walking the dog through soaring Eucalyptus and evergreen trees in the park, breathing in the smell of fertile, rich earth.

More recently, Daddy and I were shocked as you started reciting a prayer, likely the one you were agonizing about failing to remember for school earlier in the week, the words almost joyfully flowing from your mouth about asking God's forgiveness for your sins, for choosing to do wrong, failing to do good, failing to love God, who you should love most . Daddy and I looked at each other, and I know I was thinking "Holy Shit!" I think it's the prayer for first communion, which if you want to do, it's up to you, in like another 6 years. Mostly Daddy and I were concerned that if you repeated this prayer over and over, you would come to believe you had done something wrong, which in my Smorgasbord Faith, you haven't.

After the shock wore off, and I listened to my meditation the next morning, where the topic was the mantra "Satcitananda" (Short version: sat=truth, cit=knowledge, ananda=bliss), knowing I didn't want to raise a fuss in our chosen Catholic school, but also wanted to imbue your prayer with my truth, that you haven't sinned, and you do love God enough, and you are the perfect, beautiful child of God. In the middle of this meditation, repeating "satcitananda" I thought - that's it!

So you and I chatted. I gave you my view - that just because you are reciting a prayer, does not mean it is the truth, but, I suggested, I want you to think of something that has meaning to you, to add at the end. You can say it silently in your mind, or out loud, whatever you choose.

I suggested, wearing my biases on my sleeve, "namaste" -- or later, even "I love you, God, thank you for loving me." But today you told me what you decided on.

Om.

For now, that's perfect. As you get older, I'll introduce you into other religions, to infuse Catholicism with Hindu, Buddhist, and Judaism, and yes, likely Christian Science with a side of nutrition.

I love you sweet girl, you always make me proud.
Mommy