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A Fish Tale

Michael 6 Comments

Yesterday I had a sandwich for lunch. You know, I started a post a couple of weeks ago almost just like that. Well, I like sandwiches. Hmm. I started a post a couple of years ago almost just like that. Now that I think about it, I’ve probably started a post about sandwiches every couple of months. Anyway, the one a couple of years was mostly about sandwiches in general and how generally universal they are. And universally general while we’re at it. The one from a couple of weeks ago was about a specific sandwich, the grilled cheese. I mentioned in that one that I hadn’t had many grilled cheese sandwiches growing up but I never said what I had growing up, sandwichly speaking. I thought of them yesterday while I was sandwiching.

To make a short story long, yesterday I had a sardine sandwich. Go ahead. Sardines often generate that kind of response. It’s ok, we’re used to it. I happen to like sardines. More often than not, I’ll have fresh sardines that I’ve roasted and served with a light pasta. But every now and then I’ll grab a tin of sardines in olive oil or mustard and plunk them on a hearty rye bread. Yum.

But how does one who didn’t grow up in Sardinia grow up to enjoy sardines. Thanks to Napoleon (you know, that Bonaparte fellow, yeah, that one), and my father. Napoleon got things going by having them canned for the first time. My father got me going on them by sharing his sandwiches with me. To clarify, the fish Napoleon had stuffed into glass jars were probably real sardines and more closely related to the fresh variety that I have for dinner. The sardines that my father ate were probably a variety of herring which seems to be the sardine standard (or standard bearer) in North America.

So yesterday, when I had that sardine sandwich, it got me thinking of those sandwiches that I had as a sandwich impressionable youth. Sardines weren’t the only sandwiches I had that weren’t grilled cheese. While others might have been developing their sandwich palettes on grilled cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and ham and cheese, I was growing up on sardines, roast chicken on whole wheat, and fried pepper sandwiches.

I see your confused faces. You understand chicken; you accept that some people eat sardines between slices of bread. But peppers? Aren’t peppers a condiment to add to something else. Not always. On Fridays, a meatless day in our household, my father would fry thick slices of large green and red bell peppers, yellow and green mild banana peppers, and yellow hot banana peppers in olive oil and slap these on any hearty bread (rye, wheat, Italian). Oh, that mix of heat and the bread oozing flavored oil. Italian yum!

I’m sorry but that’s going to have to be it for food posts for a while. Every time I write something like this I get hungry and go eat again. I’ve gain 4 pounds this month and we still have Halloween coming! Now I have to go to the store and get some banana peppers.

 

It’s Beginning To…

Michael 4 Comments

I was out shopping yesterday. Shopping is probably overstating it. I went out to pick up a prescription so it wasn’t like I was planning a spree complete with breakfast out, a break somewhere around mid-day, and tea and scones before wrapping things up and heading home with my packages. My plan was to pour the rest of the morning coffee into a travel mug, shoot down the road to the pharmacy while sucking down the leftover sludge, run past the drive up window to retrieve aforementioned prescription, then head for home where fresh, follow up coffee should be ready for the next cup.

That was the plan. And it would have worked if there hadn’t been a 3 car line in the drive through. Blame it on the rain. So I pulled into one of the every spot open in the lot spots, reinforced myself with an extra glug of caffeinated dregs, and headed inside.

I could have still stayed close to my original plan and been home before the car heater had a chance to actually heat except for the aisle that I had to walk through to get to the prescription counter. The seasonal merchandise. And the season of the hour is …… Christmas.

I can’t help it but I am a Christmas Junk Junky. If it sparkles, I will stare at it. If it blinks and flashes, my eyes will follow it. And if it has a “Try Me!” button, I’ll try it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a multicolor LED light set, a winter scene in motion snow globe, or a plush flamingo singing “Santa Baby.”

SantaBabyI must have bought the last one of those 6 or 7 years ago because I haven’t seen one since. Yes, I’m the one who’s one aisle over pushing all the buttons and laughing like I’ve just seen A Charlie Brown Christmas for the first time. (That reminds me, It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown will be on ABC this Sunday at 8.) (In case you were wondering.)

I know, for the last 6 years I’ve harped on how stores rush every season, unveiling this Christmas’s hottest toy before last Easter’s leftover remote control hopping bunny can make it to the clearance bin, but all is forgiven (temporarily) while I read the cards’ inside inscriptions or check out the dancing Santa and elves. If Christmas brings out the kid in us, it does doubly so on me. In me?

Then I realized I hadn’t even bought Halloween candy and came to my senses. As long as I was inside the store I picked up a little supply of candy for next week’s treats. I rarely get trick or treaters where I am but just in case I wanted to have something on hand. Besides, the Halloween stuff is such a great size for when you want just a bite. But it will never beat red and green M&M candies in a motorized nutcracker dispenser. Um, yeah. I got one of those, too.

 

Leafed by the Side of the Road

Michael 2 Comments

Yesterday, for the fourth time this month I took the little car out of the garage, dropped the top, donned a pair of polarizing sunglasses (one lens Democrat, the other Republican), grabbed the real camera, and set out in search of autumnal magic, fall leaves. And for the fourth time I was disappointed.

The first time, which happened to be the 1st, I wasn’t surprised that not many trees had shifted from their summery green foliage. On the second Sunday I saw some yellowing and was given hope that the following week would be more colorful. Last week’s attempt fell in the middle of what the TV weather forecasters predicted to be the peak for color. The only red I saw was the car’s paint job. (In fairness I should have expected no colored leaves since I was going on a weather person’s prediction. After all, these were the same people who brought us “partly cloudy.”)

But yesterday’s disappointment hit a little on the hard side. There’s only one Sunday left to October. If the foliage is still as dull then as it had been I fear I may not see another leaf as pretty as on a fall tree, given that my medical history and its corresponding future are as uncertain as weather forecasting. (My long range plan is to live to at least 100. I tell my daughter that every chance I get so she won’t get to thinking that she’ll be able to live into her golden years off her inheritance. Of course only I know it’s really because if I were to drop dead tomorrow she’d only be able to live comfortably until next Thursday, so my only chance of not disappointing her in that regard is to grow so old that she herself will be old enough that she forgets that she has anything coming to her.)

It’s been an exceptionally warm fall so far this year. If you are to believe the Farmer’s Almanac (and why shouldn’t you?) it will stay above average in temperature until the week before Thanksgiving, much too late for fall foliage festivities. I don’t know if it’s the extended warm weather causing the poor color spectacle. Those pesky weather people who two weeks ago said it wouldn’t are now saying it is. But then in the past, they have said disappointing color was because it got too cold too soon. Other years it was too dry. During still others, too much rain was the cause for a dull fall.

Leaves100909

Last good color I shot, October 2009

To be perfectly honest, I haven’t seen a really vibrant fall for some years now. I suppose the easy thing to blame it on would be climate change. That seems to be a good reason for just about anything we aren’t happy with climatically speaking. Which makes perfect sense since in the truest sense of it, any change in the air can be defined as climate change. Unfortunately we actually believe we can do something about it.

The hardest thing for us to accept is recognizing that yes, people do things that aren’t good for the environment but that the environment is going to change anyway. That’s not to say that we shouldn’t be respectful of the environment and do what is good and healthy for it and for us. It is to say though that eventually, the world’s history is going to catch up with it and there are going to be changes that we aren’t responsible for and that we can’t do anything about.

As hard as it is for us and our egos to accept, we aren’t in charge here. The world came before us and had its routine well established before we propelled our first ozones into the ozone. It’s been hot, it’s been cold, it was covered in ice and covered in water. We are here at its invitation and are welcomed to ride the rides while we are here but that’s as far as it is willing to go.

This year’s colors might not be to my liking and that’s going to have to be ok. Colorful or not, the leaves will drop, spring will be back and new ones will bud on the trees. Next fall I’ll again look forward to a day when I can aim my camera at the beauty of the fall foliage.

Until then, like yesterday, I’ll just enjoy the ride.

 

…making all his nowhere plans…

Michael 4 Comments

Recently a friend asked me what I think of when I go to bed. An odd question not quite in the same category as what’s your sign and certainly more thought provoking than what’s your favorite color.

Since I go to bed alone I most often think alone thoughts. You know, “sigh, another night alone.” Now alone isn’t necessarily alone in bed. I much more often think of being alone as being the only one in the apartment than of being the only one in the bed. Of course it’s nice to have somebody care so much that they share their whole body with you but it’s nicer when somebody shares their whole person. But that’s the philosophical me. It took a while to learn that and I’m ok with it even if the bodily me would like to feel another body next to it sometimes. But I think not having someone in the same house is a more profound kind of alone.

They say there’s a big difference between being alone and being lonely. I’m pretty sure those people were never really alone for any length of time. You can talk to someone every day, you can see people during all the waking hours, you can have someone nearby, but those will never take the place of sharing space. When you go through days of going to bed at night never having another person to check in on, never having someone to say goodnight to, knowing if something happened nobody is there to say “it’s going to be ok,” that’s being alone. And if you don’t think that’s also being lonely, you haven’t not had someone to say goodnight to on a regular basis.

I can’t imagine anybody who lives alone who hasn’t thought about what happens if something happens. Is that just part of being alone? Or lonely?

Oh well.

And I Helped

Michael 2 Comments

A little boy was playing in his yard when he tripped and cut his knee. His sister heard him crying and ran out to him where she started crying too. Their mother, hearing the commotion, goes out to check on them and finds both of them wailing but only he seems to be hurt.

She picks him up and tells him, “We’ll just go inside and clean you up and put a bandage on that and you’ll be good as new.” She turns to her daughter and asks, “And what happened to you?”

“Nothing Mom. I’m just helping him cry.”

Not to get preaching or anything but we could learn a lot from those two. Like the sister, we’re always willing to join in and help out when disaster strikes. We only need to look at 3 hurricanes and a wildfire in a little over a month to confirm that.

But just like those young siblings, unless we see blood we’re more likely to push, shove, pinch, and otherwise cause the pain of our brothers and sisters. We only need to look at any morning’s headlines to confirm that.

Nuclear testing is back in the news after a 40 year hiatus. Casting couches are indeed as stereotypical as we were led to believe 50 years ago. Trump haters are still hating Trump supporters and Trump supporters are still hating Trump haters. Boyfriends with PFAs are killing girlfriends. Parents are killing children, presumably after bandaging their cut knees. A new record for mass killings was set. Football players want to become social compasses. Football owners want to be richer. A young police officer was shot in an ambush in New Orleans. Almost nobody outside of New Orleans knew a young police officer was shot in an ambush in New Orleans.

On the environmental front, the Yellowstone super volcano may erupt soon. It could mean the end of the world.(Really, check out the article at Country Living.) But if it doesn’t destroy life as we know it, maybe we could take this opportunity to be nice to each other before a disaster happens.

 

A Cheesy Story

Michael 5 Comments

Yesterday I made a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. For me that’s a rare treat. I used to do a grilled cheese, with or without tomato soup, almost weekly for years. And years. And even some more. Now I make one a couple of times a year.  I have a complicated relationship with grilled cheese.

Grilled cheese doesn’t hold one of those warm, fuzzy spots youth’s memory. I’m sure my mother made them but I don’t have a real recollection of them. I do remember eating grilled cheese at my elementary school cafeteria. Mostly I remember them being greasy.

I remember in college grilled cheese hitting a new level. There the cafeteria put ham or turkey with it! Who knew? And, I discovered with the help of some aluminum foil and the iron my mother insisted I have in my dorm room that I could prepare a nutritious and alcohol absorbing pre-weekend snack. Even considering the food service’s meaty additions, college level grilled cheese was more utilitarian than culinarian.

I remember making grilled cheese for my daughter. But I can’t say they were the things of lifelong memories. They were mostly things that could be thrown together quickly between her dismissal time and band practice.

Throughout my childhood, my young adulthood, and my adult me’s child’s childhood, grilled cheese was just there. It wasn’t until many years later that grilled became more than a pasteurized processed cheese product between two slices of bread.

In March of 2015, after a 4 month long hospitalization, I was admitted to rehab to learn how to walk again. For the next several weeks I went through physical therapy seven days each week working to the day that I could shuffle my own way out of there. To make a long story short, eventually the day came when my doctor said I could be discharged soon. But first, for lack of a better way to put it, I had to pass several tests. Among them I was to prepare my own hot lunch. I was given two to pick from. I don’t remember the other choice but I picked the grilled cheese sandwich.

GrilledCheeseIt took a while, but eventually I had the required pasteurized processed cheese product, two slices of bread, and a stick of butter on the table in front of me. I assembled them into a reasonable sandwich like fashion and placed it into the medium hot pan on the very hot stove. About 4 minutes later I divided the sandwich into two triangles and passed one to the occupational therapist who had been watching my poor imitation of Jeff Mauro. Three days after that I was propelling my walker to the entrance of the rehab unit where, per hospital policy, I was transferred to a wheelchair to the outside world.

Now every time I make a grilled cheese sandwich I think of those days in that unit, trading half of a sandwich for my freedom. And that’s why I now make grilled cheese only a couple if times a year. Yeah, I guess it’s not that complicated.

 

When A Door Closes

Michael 3 Comments

This past weekend I was getting out of the car when I realized car doors don’t close right, the kind of light bulbs that last ten years don’t last ten years, and computers ask questions they have no intention of doing anything with about. I also realized these are all first world problems but, well frankly, those are the kinds of problem I most encounter.

Let’s look at those cars doors. Every other door in the (first) world either opens or closes. Most exterior and interior house doors have latches or knobs and you push them open and they stay open or fasten them closed and then stay closed. Some even have pneumatic or motorized closers that close them for you, and thus a name that has nothing to do with baseball. Refrigerator doors have those magnetic strips that run the complete inner rim of the door with the expressed purpose of making certain the door, when not opened, is indeed closed. An entire industry has been created around the process of opening and closing garage doors. The point is that most all doors in most all buildings are mostly always open or always closed unless you take steps to leave them partially opened (or, for the half empty types, partially closed).

Car doors are a different breed. Yes car doors have a latching mechanism that ensures the door remains in the closed position until you take steps to open it (a perfectly reasonable expectation of a car door when travelling down the highway at 15 miles over the posted speed limit), but only the car door has taken pains to provide the user with a position not open yet not quite closed (and a quite unreasonable position on that same highway). So often are these doors in this position that car manufacturers have taken steps to alert the driver that a door is not completely closed by means of a warning light on the dash panel. Would it not be a more reasonable resolution to take steps to make a door that closes completely? Perhaps the car makers should get together with the refrigerator makers.

Now, speaking of lights, I have this pole lamp in the corner of my living that has graced the corner of this living room, the previous living room, a family room, and a room that once had aspirations of being a den but became a nursery instead. As you can see, it’s a versatile and, at least in my opinion, an attractive light. I bought it about 15 years ago. I almost didn’t buy it. It was pricey for the time and for its type and that, I was told, was due to the light’s lamp. Lamp’s light? It has (had) a most usual bulb that looks like a miniature fluorescent tube that had the added bonus of a built in dimming mechanism. I questioned this arrangement, not to mention the price, before making the purchase. I was assured that the dimmer worked as well in the home as in the showroom, that indeed it was expensive and when it comes time to replace the bulb it too will be expensive, but that its bulb would last at least 10 years if not longer.

Well indeed it was expensive but it worked as advertised and its bulb lasted more than the claimed 10 years. I use the past tense here because after those ten and half again more years the bulb has given its all. I never found out if the replacement bulb is expensive because when I went to buy said replacement bulb I was told that “they haven’t made those for at least ten years now, but, who knows, maybe you can find something on the Internet.”

So to home I went, in my car with the now fully closed doors, fired up the old desktop computer and thought I’d check my email before beginning my what would probably be fruitless search for a miniature, dimmable, fluorescent light bulb. A message from my doctor’s hospital organization was there telling me I had a message on their server. (If they can send me a message that says I have a message why can’t they just send me the message? That may be Thursday’s post.) So I signed on to their server with my user name and super secret password and was immediately presented with a pop up window asking me if I want my browser to remember my super secret password. I suppose so I was not confused by this question I was presented with multiple choice answers. — Yes — Not Now — Never —  And as I do every time I am asked that same question entering that same site I select “Never.”

And then I wonder…we can’t even make doors that close all the way and I expect a computer to understand the concept of never.

 

Every Day Is a Great Day

Michael 4 Comments
Hockey season started yesterday. I was there for it. In my seat, the one I’ve occupied for the past couple of years. It’s not a bad seat. Over the years I’ve sat in several spots around the arena. Lower bowl, upper bowl, center ice, behind the net, on the dots. In the old arena. In the new arena. None are bad seats. Amidst a handful of people in my little section amidst the 19,000 or so seats all occupied by people in their little sections we sat in not bad seats there just to see a hockey game. No other agenda, hidden, assumed, obvious, or imagined. Just hockey.
But before the game we stopped to pay respects to those who lost lives and loved ones in Las Vegas and all 19,000 were silent. Every one. Silent. Then we paid respects to the flag and all 19,000 sang. Every one. Singing. And I thought how once again all I know about being a gentleman I learned from hockey and how I was once so moved by that realization that I posted my thoughts on it right here. And I thought, just as “Badger” Bob Johnson knew every day is a great day for hockey, that every day is a great day to learn from hockey.
So I’m doing today something I’ve never done before. I’m reprinting “Everything I Know About Being a Gentleman I Learned From Hockey.”

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EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT BEING A GENTLEMAN I LEARNED FROM HOCKEY

Originally posted November 26, 2016

When I was at the hockey game this weekend I got to thinking how much as a society we can learn from hockey. Yes, the sport that is the butt of the joke “I went to a fight last night and a hockey game broke out,” is the same sport that can be our pattern for good behavior.

Stay with me for a minute or two and think about this. It started at the singing of the national anthem. I’ve been to many hockey, baseball, football, and soccer games. Only at the hockey games have I ever been in an arena filled with people actually singing along. Only at the hockey games are all of the players reverent to the tradition of honoring the country where they just happen to be playing even though they come from around the world – Canada, Russia, Germany, Sweden, Finland, even a few Americans.

A decent dose of nationalism notwithstanding, hockey has much to offer the gentility. Even those fights. Or rather any infraction. If a player breaks the rules he is personally penalized for it. Ground isn’t given or relinquished like on a battlefield, free throws or kicks aren’t awarded to the aggrieved party like victors in a tort battle. Nope, if you do something wrong you pay the consequences and are removed from play for a specified period in segregation from the rest of your teammates. No challenges, no arguments, no time off for good behavior. Do the crime. Pay the time. In the penalty box. Try doing that to a school child who bullies and you’ll have some civil liberty group claiming you’re hurting the bully by singling him out.

Hockey is good at singling out people but in a good way. At last Saturday’s game the opposing team has two members who had previously played for the home team. During a short break in the action a short montage of those two players was shown on the scoreboard screens and they were welcomed back by the PA announcer. And were cheered and applauded by the fans in attendance. There weren’t seen as “the enemy.” Rather they were friends who had moved away to take another job and were greeted as friends back for a day.

While play is going on in a hockey game play goes on in a hockey game. Only if the puck is shot outside the playing ice, at a rules infraction, or after a goal is scored does play stop. Otherwise, the clock keeps moving and play continues. Much like life. If you’re lucky you might get to ask for one time out but mostly you’re at the mercy of the march of time. Play begins. After a while play ends. If you play well between them, you’ll be ok.

The point of hockey is to score goals. Sometimes goals are scored ridiculously easily, sometimes goals seem to be scored only because of divine intervention. Most times, goals are a result of working together, paying attention to details, and wanting to score more than the opposing team wants to stop you from scoring. There is no rule that says after one team scores the other team gets to try. It all goes back to center ice and starts out with a new drop of the puck. If the team that just scored controls the puck and immediately scores again, oh well.

Since we’re talking about scoring, the rules of hockey recognize that it takes more than an individual to score goals. Hockey is the only sport where players are equally recognized not just for scoring goals but for assisting others who score goals. Maybe you should remember that the next time someone at work says you’ve done a good job.

handshakeThe ultimate good job is winning the championship. The NHL hockey championship tournament is a grueling event. After an 82 game regular season, the top 16 teams (8 from each conference) play a four round best of seven elimination tournament. It takes twenty winning games to win the championship. That’s nearly 25% as long as the regular season. It could take as long as 28 games to play to the finish. That’s like playing another third of a season. After each round only one team moves on. And for each round, every year, for as many years as the tournament has ever been played, and for as many years as the tournament will ever be played, when that one team wins that fourth game and is ready to move on, they and the team whose season has ended meet at center ice and every player on each team shakes the hand of his opponent player and coach, wishing them well as they move on and thanking them for a game well played. No gloating. No whining. No whimpering. Only accepting.

So you go to a fight and a hockey game breaks out. It could be a lot worse.

—–

So there you go. Everything you need to know about being a gentleman, or a lady. Courtesy of the folks who brought you hockey. They’re not bad lessons if I say so myself. And I think even Badger Bob would agree.

 

Sunday Funday

Michael 5 Comments

Now that football season has started I must be more selective about shopping days. The local college fans aren’t so bad, but I have to remember, don’t go to the store on Sunday before a football game. Those people are nuts!

The closer to kick off the more desperate the die-hard fans are to get their share of the game goodies home to the buffet before the rest of the tailgaters get there. Buffet might be a bit ambitious.

These folks have carts with nothing but nuts, chips, salsa, pretzels, those pre-arranged shrimp rings, football shaped chocolate chip cookies, cupcakes decorated in team colors icing, pre-cubed cheese, and sausage. Lots and lots of sausage.

And they don’t wear clothes. Not real clothes. The women are wearing halter tops, and short shorts, and things that wouldn’t pass as cover ups at the pool. Men have shorts, team logo baseball caps, flip flops, and replica jerseys. Everything is color coordinated to the home team and everybody wears sunglasses.  It is October isn’t it? Now, to be fair about it and so you don’t think that I live in a town filled with chauvinistic stereotypes, I did see one couple that she was the one dressed in a jersey and he in a muscle shirt which could be the male version of the halter.

If I had shopped with a list on Friday I wouldn’t have even been in the store on a weekend. But I didn’t and if I wanted breakfast this morning I had to run in for eggs. I thought I was going to be in trouble when I got inside the door and there were no shopping carts. Just needing a dozen eggs meant I didn’t have to have a cart but it was significant that there were none to be had because the parking lot wasn’t particularly full. That meant that each couple in the store had two carts. One for the aforementioned munchies and one for the beer.

It was also significant in that grocery stores always site the dairy section in the complete opposite corner of the store from the entrance. In order to get to those eggs I was going to have to do my impression of a running back picking his way through the line looking for that opening that will lead me to my goal. Once I made it to the egg case I had to tuck that carton in like I was protecting the ball as I turned for open field and bolted for the checkout lines.

Ah the checkout lines. Never get behind people wearing replica football jerseys in the self-service checkout line. Picture the conversation between the referee and a head coach who did not get the call go his way after a lengthy replay timeout. That would be mild compared to the discussion between pseudo-quarterback and the electronic cashier’s disembodied (and dispassionate) voice. In fact, I should remove those parentheses because I think it was the repetitive “please remove all items from the belt and try again” in the calm, dispassionate tone that had him really riled.

Eventually I got myself home with my dozen chicken eggs and a proper breakfast will be had. I have a feeling that a lot of my fellow shoppers will be having aspirin and lots of black coffee for their morning meals today.

Boy am I glad that we hockey fans aren’t like that.

 

Four and Twenty

Michael 5 Comments

Although not as famous as the two dozen blackbirds, a single chicken is the more likely thought of filling when it comes to considering what type of savory pie to have for dinner. And while the rest of the northern hemisphere is fascinated with all things pumpkin as soon as the sun passes through the autumnal equinox, my sure Sign of Fall is the return of the pot pie.

Clearly I’m not the only one who thinks this way. I probably was the first to come up with it but like all great ideas, mine was stolen and exploited by others. Yes, you see, even though all other pies may be lumped together celebratorially on March 14, pot pies have their own day on September 23. This year that was the first full day of fall. See?

PotPieOf course, chickens aren’t the only animals to find their way between sheets of pie dough. Beef can easily play the role of filling in a pot pie. Lamb fills a particular pot pie, a Shepherd’s Pie. Chopped pork and pork jelly find their way into another traditional savory pie. Fish pies rarely make it to the American side of the Atlantic while crab and cheese filled pies don’t often make it to England’s shore but both have ardent fans. Although pumpkin fills the sweet side of piedom, another favorite fall squash, the butternut, satisfies the meatless savory pie wisher.

With all these options, tonight’s dinner still is going to be a classic chicken pot pie*. I know, I’m almost a whole week late, but last Saturday the temperature was a summery 84° (29°C). Today’s high isn’t getting out of the 60s (or about 17°C). Not quite down to fall standards, but certainly autumnaler.

*Chicken Pot Pie

Preheat oven to 425°F (200°C) and assemble ingredients.

Filling

1 pound chicken breast, diced or cubed
1 8 oz. package frozen peas
1 large carrot, sliced
1/2 cup celery sliced
1/2 medium onion, diced

In frying pan, cook chicken in olive oil until all pink is gone, remove and set aside. Cook onion celery and carrot until softened. Return chicken to pan, cover with water, bring to a boil then reduce to simmer and allow to continue cooking for 15 minutes. Drain and set aside while preparing sauce.

Sauce

1/3 cup butter
1/2 medium onion, diced
1/3 cup flour
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
1/4 tap celery seed
12 oz. chicken broth
6oz. half-and-half (or milk)

In a medium saucepan, melt butter then add onion and cook until softened. Stir in flour and cook until flour is completely combined to make a roux. Slowly stir in chicken broth and half-and-half. Add salt, pepper, and celery seed. Simmer over medium-low heat until thick.

Pie

Chicken filling and sauce
2×9 inch prepared pie crusts

Line pie pan with one pie crust. Fill with chicken filling mixture and pour thickened sauce over filling. Cover with second pie crust, seal edges, and make some small slits in the top.

Bake at 425 °F for 30-35 minutes.

Or, pick up prepared pie at local grocery store usually next to the rotisserie chickens. Not everybody is retired and has all day to play in the kitchen.