Sure there's millions of takes on toads in holes (bread! hash browns! bell peppers!) and plenty of egg casseroles with ham and cheese. But what about when you want something different. Something savory and light. Eggy and cheesy but also served in pie slices? Is that just me? I doubt it.
This magical baking relic of the past that my Millenial mouth has never tasted. But, even though I never personally experienced the magic of Fluffo, you can bet I have heard, on more than one occasion, what a tragedy the loss of its golden fatty goodness was for my family recipes. Especially Mom's pie crust.
I have to warn you. There's no going back. Once you have this pesto, all other pesto will be ruined. Yes, you read that right. This is the pesto to end all pesto.
Because if I've learned anything from this tumultuous timeline it's that I've got to go for it with all my heart. I have to believe in myself. I have to try.
I'm not saying I always take the right path at the parental win fork in the road. But I realized right then how precious these tiny moments that seem so insignificant are. Maybe she wouldn't have remembered this day, no matter my reaction. She's still so young. I don't have memories from that age.
When flipping through recipes I always stop a moment on Dayton's Chunky Tomato Soup, even if I know I'm not adding it to the week's menu. Just the title and I'm transported. There I am in the den of my childhood home. The home my grandfather purchased for his growing family in the early 60s. The home where my mother and aunts and uncles grew up. The Grey House, sitting catty-corner on its giant lot on a street that used to be the suburbs but increasingly edges more and more towards midtown.
It made me think about a lot of times in my life when I felt at peace. And then I remember the halibut. So I went and bought some.
What does it mean to step outside?
What do we do when we face a world that isn't the one we planned for? What do we do when our brief moments of joy are robbed? What do we do when accidents happen? I don't know. I don't know what we do. But I know what I've done. I've given myself a little more grace. I've reached out for love. I've reached out for guidance. I've reached out for therapy. And I've celebrated the mundane accomplishments I used to take for granted. A shower. A made bed. And a roasted chicken.
I think the trust I'm trying to build back up with myself is also translating to some moments in the kitchen. Usually out of necessity to adapt, like in the instance of this sort of chicken picatta. Instead of panicking I simply remembered what chicken piccata is. I mean, I think I did. This is at least close. And, honestly, if it's not chicken piccata, it's still delicious.