My first posting about a food memory is, of course, associated with a chicken recipe. As children, my brother and sister and I were always treated to our favorite foods at dinner time (or, supper, as we called it). Mom would fix anything we wanted, within reason of course—she wasn’t about to serve an entire plateful of cookies or candy. Most often, I chose chicken casserole. (Like most good Minnesotans, we called it “chicken hot dish,” don’t cha know, but I thought it would be less confusing to call it a “casserole” for the benefit of all of you who are not familiar with our odd colloquialisms.)

 

Mom’s chicken casserole was the best! She would roast a whole chicken and then remove the meat from the bones—no canned chicken swimming in salt-laden water or prepackaged frozen stuff for her. She used big egg noodles, and the cream sauce she made was out of this world—it wasn’t just a can of cream of chicken soup. And, just for me, she would top the whole thing with a generous portion of crushed potato chips, which she hated to do because she said that potato chips ruined it, but after all, it was my birthday.