It is 7:00 am. Just finished making chicken pot pie . Well it has not been cooked yet but I will roll the pastry shortly and add the chicken mixture which I prepared earlier this morning. If only I had been up making pastries when I was thirty? What aromatic memories my children would have today instead of the one of the shrieking ,frenzied , in my mind, lunatic that hurried them out the door to get to school and work.
Anyway , as I was sitting here wondering what to write this morning I began to see myself as a chicken pot pie. Just think about all the ingredients that have to go into one. There is the tumble of carrots , turnip, parsnips and peas_ the sweet ingredients of experience: the onions , garlic pepper and spices _ the challenges ;the crust _the skin ; and the baking _ the passage of time which consolidates the blend . And if the combination of ingredients is well balanced then the flavour is appealing. It keeps people guessing the source of it. There is a shroud of mystery . And they seek the recipe so they can reproduce it for themselves. But if there are too many spices the product isn’t palatable.
So I thought what kind of a chicken pot pie am I? Well, certainly I have many ingredients. After all you don’t live sixty plus years and not have many different vegetables . There are people who love me still so the pepper and other spices must have been proportioned appropriately. Maybe the morning hysterics were diluted by the copious veggies. The skin is crumbly and rough not necessarily a thing of beauty but displaying interesting designs.
All in all the blue ribbon isn’t mine but I make a satisfactory pie.