Lemon Chicken

Here’s another one of my go-to meals. When I make this my kids always say, “Yum!” And, I like when they’re happy. I usually have a few chicken breasts lurking somewhere in the back of the freezer and I always have fresh lemons on hand. If you’ve got these two key ingredients, then you can pull this simple recipe together.

Yummy Cavendar’s

You will need:

At least four skinless, boneless chicken breasts

Butter

Seasonings: Cavender’s Greek Seasoning, Salt, Pepper, Oregano, Parsley

Garlic

Freshly squeezed lemon juice

Better Than Bouillon chicken base (If you keep fresh chicken stock on hand, you can use that. I’m impressed if you do.)

This is about how much seasoning I use.

Before you get started, throw some more chicken in there because this makes great leftovers. If you’re making use of the crock pot, why not?

Now brown the chicken in a large frying pan, about five minutes per side. I use a couple tablespoons of either real butter or Brummel and Brown. Whatever looks good for the amount of chicken you have.

Disclaimer: I have no idea how to write a recipe correctly. Kudos to cookbook writers. So, forgive me if I leave something out or confuse you. I thought this would be a good idea to add to my blog…I will put the absolutely unneccesary thoughts in BF italics. I feel compelled to let you know why I do certain things.

You want to get a nice brown on each side. I’m not sure why, but I just think it tastes better this way. While you’re browning one side, generously season the other side with oregano, parsley, fresh pepper and Cavendar’s Greek seasoning. You can pick up Cavendar’s at Publix; it’s a great seasoning for anything, especially for fresh salad dressing.

This is what one side browned looks like.

Once you’ve seasoned and browned both sides of the chicken, put the breasts into a crock pot or a Dutch oven. I’ve used both so I guess it depends on how long you have. I generally opt for the crock pot because it’s easier. However, if  I’m cooking for a crowd, then I choose the Dutch oven because my crock pot isn’t that big.

Come to think of it, I think I’ve had my crock pot for my entire marriage (that would be 22 years). I wish I could remember who bought it for me so I could share that with them.

Once the chicken is out of the pan, add some chopped garlic (about two cloves) into the pan and saute for about 30 seconds. Then add the juice from one or two freshly squeezed lemons. The amount of lemon is according to your preference and how much chicken you went with in the first place. I prefer using at least two lemons.

My handy dandy lemon squeezer.

I have one of those lemon/orange juicers that I received as a gift at a wedding shower too. Why am I remembering this all of a sudden? Mary Carol Crisafulli bought it for me in case she ever reads this and in case I forgot to send her a thank you note. 

Next add a tablespoon or more of the Better Than Bouillon chicken flavoring and some hot water (at least a cup or two) to make your sauce. Now scrape up all the good stuff left behind in the pan from when you browned the chicken and pour it over the chicken in your crock pot. Make sure you have enough broth so that you’ll have some gravy.

Let it cook on low for about 5 hours or until its done. Again, it depends on how much chicken you’ve used and how large your crock pot is.

This is what it looks like going into the crockpot!

Be sure to taste the broth towards the end to make sure you’ve got it seasoned enough. You may need to add more salt or lemon juice. Just get it to a nice flavor that you like. I’d like to say I serve this over brown organic rice but I don’t. Instant rice is what I usually have on hand. If my mom is coming over for dinner, I ask her make the mashed potatoes because she is the absolute best mashed potato maker in the family. Mine are okay, but I hate peeling them. However, it’s worth the extra effort to make then just to see the glazed look my kids get in their eyes when I tell them I made mashed potatoes. They say things like, “You’re the best mom ever. Let me clean my room before dinner.”

I generally serve it with a salad and some freshly frozen corn (because Sophie has to have corn with mash potatoes). When dinner is over, let the kids and your husband clean the kitchen while you go take a bubble bath!

I’d love to hear about your favorite recipe in the comment section below.

Enjoy.

 

What Happens If There’s No Fireworks? My Retreat Wrap-Up.

The retreat weekend started with a bang. Maybe a howl is a better adjective. We were supposed to drive up on Friday night but due to the tornadoes and storms, we waited until Saturday morning. It was an agonizing verdict that taught me a lot about decision-making and just how difficult it is to get five women to agree on anything.

We decided to take one car, another huge decision in itself, and to meet at Christy’s where we would all leave together. There would be no early escape for me, no matter how hard I tried. I prepared to leave my house at 6 a.m., quietly and without drama, until I couldn’t find my keys. I had to wake Regi up to help me look for them. Found them. It occurred to me that I had stumbled on reason #1 to stay home.

I didn’t.

After meeting the other girls, we piled into Angela’s SUV and stopped at Starbuck’s on the way out-of-town. I realized I had no cash and had forgotten my debit card in my car…at Christy’s. I scrounged together the needed $4.25 and felt pretty stupid for being so unprepared. This was reason #2 two that I should have cancelled my trip altogether.

But I didn’t.

We chatted for two hours straight and arrived at our beautiful location. We made it just after the morning session started; I instantly knew when I walked into the room that I had discovered reason #3 that I should have stayed home. Certain crowds intimidate me. There were approximately 150 women which by my standards, was entirely too many for one retreat. If you check the rule book, I’m sure you will see that I’m right. We sat, you guessed it, on the back row. I couldn’t fully enjoy myself because as the above stated rule book will also divulge, it takes women approximately three sessions at a retreat until they are relaxed enough to enjoy or take in what is being preached, taught, sung, whatever.

Then the entire weekend came and went in an instant.

Nothing earth shattering happened in my life. I can’t say I went needing “this” and came away with “that” like many women who attended. And that was okay.

Here are some valuable lessons I learned:

  1. Finding five seats together at a retreat is difficult. It will be best to strictly adhere next time to the one-buddy policy if at all possible.
  2. Some of the kindest women you’ll ever met are the ones over the age of 60 like Kathleen and Sally.
  3. Peanut Butter Snickers were the chocolate of choice.
  4. There is great value to be held in honoring other people. (And this wasn’t even a topic that was taught on. It was simply something we saw acted out throughout the entire day and evening).
  5. My friends will cross busy streets and leave convenience stores if they don’t serve Diet Coke and if their ice machine does not work.

I also learned (again) that I live behind a wall. And I learned (again) that it’s up to me whether I will allow that wall to keep me at arm’s distance from others, the world, the emotion, the stretching, and the plying that is needed for my own personal growth. I must continually chip away at that wall because it will never go away.

Do you have a wall?

I learned that God doesn’t put us into situations for frivolous reasons. For example, just as soon as three of us were going to skip the small group breakout session (i.e. six women sitting around a table chatting…ugh), we changed our minds. Turns out it was there that one of my friends had her greatest revelation of the weekend. And we almost missed it because we wanted nothing to do with the unfamiliar territory.

How many blessings do you miss because you are afraid to take a step?

I can't believe we didn't get a pic of the 5 of us! (...next year) These are my roommates, Angela and Holly. I love them!

The weekend was full of some of the most amazing teaching I’ve heard in a long time; I am reminded that I must feed my soul. If you aren’t in a place where you’re growing spiritually, find a new place. Life is too difficult to do alone, let alone without the encouragement of women who have walked in our shoes and aren’t afraid to model their battle wounds.

I think it would be easy to view retreats as the only place we can off-load our burdens, the only time we can spend focusing on the matters of our heart.  I must purpose to retreat every day. A place where I stop, pray, think, consider the weight of my responsibilities, my job, my loneliness, my blessings, anything I carry, and lay it down. None of it is mine to carry anyway.

 Can you possibly exist on that once a year experience? Do you need to take a retreat today?

To be honest, I questioned why I even came on this retreat as I packed up my stuff to leave. I thought I’d meet so many new people, and experience a small epiphany along the way. However, it occurred to me, and was confirmed when Christy stated the same thing to me, that this retreat was more about me strengthening the relationships I already have. I spent many hours with my friends that I may not have the chance to do until the next retreat. I learned what’s important to them, where their zeal for others comes from, and what part of their heart is hurting.

I didn’t see fireworks. I didn’t wear half the clothes I packed. I didn’t have any near death bathroom experiences. I didn’t take a shower. I didn’t wash my hair. I didn’t cry. I put on as much make-up as I wanted. But I had fun, I laughed, I learned things about my friends I didn’t know, I was refreshed.

And I can’t wait to do it all over again next year.

 

Women, Chocolate, and Kleenex. Why Retreats Scare Me.

It’s Monday. I’m already worrying about Friday.

A couple months ago I thought it would be a great thing if a couple friends and I signed up for the women’s retreat. We’re all fairly new to our church—wouldn’t this be a good way to get plugged-in and meet a lot more people? I encouraged. I prodded. And now, as much as I’d like to, I can’t back out of my own idea.

A few of us are long time friends, a few are new-ish. I’ve never spent time alone in a hotel room with any of them that’s for sure (or seen them in their p.j.’s, for that matter), and I’m nervous.

How do you approach, you know, the stuff?

What if I snore? What if one of them snores? Or what if one of them snores and asks me if she kept me up all night with her snoring? I can’t lie for pity sake…I’m on a spiritual women’s retreat where lying is not on the agenda.

I can’t even think about three or four people sharing one bathroom. That frightens me. Literally.

The next question is, “How do I show up for breakfast the first morning?” Do I act like I’m okay in my own skin and not spend much time in front of the mirror? You know the minute I don’t, there will be an entire table of ladies who spent way more time on looking good and I’ll feel completely undone. Being female is not an easy task. If only some house rules were established, I’d be fine. Let’s start with these: a) No makeup allowed; b) Showers are optional; and b) No games allowed where you have to guess which farm animal is taped to your back or any other silly ice breaker. Guidelines or boundaries would surely up the enrollment to these things.

Then there’s the whole vulnerability issue. This is the part I think I hate the most. I’m an emotional person, but on my own terms, and I like to keep it together in front of people. But something happens when a bunch of women get together. No one can talk without crying, everyone feels inclined to share their deepest secret, a lot of singing in small rooms is encouraged, chocolate is consumed at all hours of the day…dear God, what’s wrong with me to think like this?!

Pressure. Insecurities. Fear of the unknown. You name it, women experience it.

But why do we have such a difficult time with ourselves? Maybe I’m speaking to no one but myself here. [Insert: tell me to go read my old blog called The Bag-man Cometh. Or Seeth.] That begs the question: When was the last women’s retreat you went on? Maybe you, like me, have just avoided them altogether so you never have to experience this emotional train wreck. Next time maybe I should ask for the private room rate and bypass this angst?

I think it gets down to us getting so wrapped up in motherhood, being a wife, being single, cleaning the house, making dinner, working long hours and never getting sick that we must maintain our super powers and not allow anyone to see us sweat. Or cry. Or downright sob. Or hurt. Or laugh. Or giggle uncontrollably into the wee hours of the morning. Or forget about everything we love that drains us and for one weekend focus on ourselves. Our stinky, frizzy morning haired, snorish, tired, hungry yet lovely and unique selves that is longing for refuge. Even if for just a weekend.

I have a few days before it’s Friday and we all load up and drive the 1.5 hours to our destination. We are thinking about all five of us driving together, but like one friend told me, if she brings her own car, it would be the perfect escape route should we need to make a quick exit. She has a point.

I’m already telling myself to relax, look forward to the weekend, to bravely step into these unknown pastures (although I may step on a cow patty or two), and get real. With myself, with others and most of all, with God.

Excuse me for now. I need to go buy some Kleenex and chocolate. Something tells me I’m going to need them.

Looking for a new meal idea? Try this recipe!

Lana’s Curry Chicken…My Way

My friend, Lana Irons (you can visit her page at www.ByeByeOffice.com) posted this recipe last year. She stated that it was “kid friendly.” Yeah, right. Maybe friendly for your kid, but not mine! I have one good eater, one not so. Desperate for a new recipe one Friday, I decided to try this (I seldom try a recipe that doesn’t come with a picture but I did anyway). It was a hit for ¾ of our family. Eventually, Eli came aboard and now this is one of our family’s favorite meals. I’ve made adjustments from her recipe to come up with how we like it. You can read my ending note to see the varying tastes of my family. And the next time I make this, I’ll post a picture or two.

Enjoy!

Lana’s Curry Chicken…My Way

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
 (I slice them into @ 2” strips)

1 small to medium onion, sliced

2 gloves garlic

olive oil

1 tablespoon Better Than Bouillon chicken flavoring (this is found near the bouillon cubes; it’s in a jar and you spoon it into your dishes. I had never used this before until I read it in Lana’s recipe and now I use nothing else. It’s worth it.]

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon black pepper

1-3 tablespoons yellow curry (adjust to your liking)

1/2 teaspoon paprika

1 bay leaf

1 teaspoon brown sugar

1 cup sour cream (I always use light)

1/4-1/2 C. milk (to thin out if too thick; I always use skim)

½ fresh red pepper (sliced; more if you like)

½ fresh green pepper (sliced; more if you like)

1 small package sliced fresh mushrooms (although my husband hates these, these are the best part of the entire meal)

Cabbage (as much as you like, even though the kids don’t like this part; I only use this occasionally but Regi loves it)

Directions:

Early in the day, I cut the chicken up and put it in a medium bowl with the olive oil, paprika, salt, pepper and @ 1 tablespoon of curry. I let it marinate for a while until I’m ready to start dinner.

  • In a dutch oven or deep skillet, brown onions in olive oil until soft (about 5 minutes).
  • Add garlic and brown sugar.
  • Add the chicken to skillet and cook over medium heat in order to brown the chicken.
  • Add the bouillon paste and water. Let it simmer for a while (about 20 minutes).
  • At this point, add more water and bouillon paste until it’s the consistency you like. Add the rest of the curry, adjusting to your liking. Then add the mushrooms.
  • Next add the sour cream. If you need to thin it out, I add milk.
  • Add peppers and cabbage (or whichever you like) toward the end because it doesn’t take long for them to cook. Simmer, covered, for approximately 25 minutes.

If the sauce gets too thin, I add a little cornstarch. Don’t forget to taste it along the way. If you like it a bit sweeter, add another teaspoon of brown sugar. I use about two tablespoons of the curry all together. Sophie tends to like it spicy and always tells me I need to add more.

How I serve it: my family likes to serve this over good old white rice. I know it’s not really good for us, but I think it tastes good.

For Regi, I make sure no mushrooms get onto his plate. He likes everything else.

For Eli, I only put chicken on his plate without much of the sauce. I can barely get this child to even taste a vegetable.

Sophie gets all the mushrooms that neither Regi nor Eli want, but won’t eat let me put the cabbage or peppers on her plate. She loves the chicken and lots of sauce. Little known fact about her: She usually won’t let any food touch each other and she will only one food group at a time. Thought you’d like to know that.

Me…I like it all. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have put it in the pot to begin with!

An Unexpected Valentine

I’ve been holding off posting this blog because it relates to a very personal area of my life. I almost clicked erase a hundred times but couldn’t bring myself to completely trash my thoughts. Then I realized Valentine’s Day would be the perfect time to show my love for an important person in my life.

Two Saturdays ago a letter showed up out of the blue. A bona fide (although computer typed) letter with a cute heart drawn in blue ink beside the name. The only people that send me notes (other than birthday or Christmas cards) are Christy and Uncle Tommy. (Note to friends: don’t spoil the surprise and tell me you appreciate their letters too because I’d like to think I’m the special one.)

This was the best kind…a 6×9 bubble mailer. Sophie was puzzled that there was no return name, just an address and two letter state abbreviation she couldn’t recall. When I told her who it was from, we played tug-of-war over who got to open it.

It was a letter from her birth mom. Instantly I was back to the day we arrived at a hospital in Kansas with empty arms…only to leave full. I was in close contact with her birth mom before and after Sophia was born until suddenly, a couple of years later, the letters stopped. I experienced a brief pause and told myself, “This is how it needs to be.”

Receiving this letter after so long an absence brought many thoughts to the surface. I was tentative at first, then surprised at how I giddy with excitement I became when I saw Sophie’s eyes light up. This is how it needs to be, I told myself. And instead of feeling threatened, I was suddenly aware of how indebted I feel toward her birth mom. Like I’d name a town after her if I could. Okay, maybe a street in a really cool town. Nonetheless, I want to scream out, “I love this girl!!!!!!” just like in the commercial, in hopes she can hear five states away. Such an intense love for a girl I barely know.

When the pictures from the envelope spilled onto the table, I knew what caught Sophie’s attention—the nose? The eyes? Maybe the lips? Hair color? Of all the gifts I’m able to provide, there are some things money can’t buy and I am at peace with that.

Sophie scrambled upstairs to read the note. She cranked out Coldplay while reading a letter that was addressed to me. Eventually I made my way upstairs to have a read.

“Are you sure about this? Doesn’t it make you feel odd, bringing her into your life?” you ask.

Absolutely not.

Without this girl who gave birth to my daughter, I would have missed out on my gift. It’s that simple. Nothing will ever change what Sophie and I are to each other: no letter, no meeting in years to come, no knowledge of or lack thereof. A love story that began over 13 years ago will entangle our lives forever. This is exactly how it was meant to be!

I studied the note—a mixture of sweet and kindness, revelation/happiness/silly, all tied together with a bow of gratitude. We noticed many similarities and Sophie and I laughed at the top of our lungs because we realized where this-and-that came from. The glasses and braces I remember when I met her are gone; the high school girl who graduated with my child in her belly has become a woman. Now she smiles from the picture, with her husband at their wedding, and arm and arm with her sisters.

Our hearts are full.

I really can’t think of what to say next; why am I even penning something so personal? Maybe because writing is one way I can offer an ounce of gratitude, and maybe because I hope she will read this one day. And maybe because I’m feeling so much love today and I want to share it. And why not? I’ve thanked people for gifts of money, friendship, casseroles and flowers. While I’ve never really thanked someone for life, this is me trying. And midst this extremely feeble attempt, I somehow pray that birth moms everywhere know how much they are loved for the gifts only they could give.

Wouldn’t it be great if you put into words something that makes your heart happy today? Maybe it’s thanking someone for their huge act of kindness, or maybe it’s simply telling them how you appreciated their small gesture of concern when you needed it most.

Your words are powerful. Certainly more powerful than any box of chocolates you may think of buying. So here’s to celebrating love, and happiness, and gifts that come in forms we least expect.

–

I have so much more to share on the gift of adoption in the future! I have more friends than I can count who have amazing stories of how their families came to be. Each one is different, unique to their situation. For Regi and me, our children’s stories are entirely separate as well. I do not intend to say that if you aren’t in touch with your child’s birth mom your story is less. Pure and simple: Kids need families and families need kids! And adoption is a gift that chose us and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I originally started writing this blog in honor of some friends who celebrated the finalization of their adoption last Friday. How beautiful to witness first hand a new branch sprout on their family tree! Last year if you had told them they were going to become parents, they would have called you crazy. But God had something greater than they could ever dream and now a precious 12-year-old daughter shares their name. I have no doubt that she was born to complete their family. She’s like the unread P.S. on the letter of their lives. Perhaps these friends will understand most the place in my heart where this blog comes from.

The Bagman Cometh. Or See-eth.

A quick trip to the grocery comes with a dilemma. Makeup? No makeup? Hat? No hat? I care about what I wear, but not always. Sometimes I take the real me, unphotoshopped, as I sneak around the aisles. If I spot someone I know, I pretend to be glued to the buy-one-get-one free chicken broth just to go unnoticed.

Today I just wanted to get in and out of the store, short and sweet. I didn’t feel like small talk but you can’t escape it there. The people in green are just so stinkin’ friendly.

The very second I walked to where the baskets were waiting, I was greeted by the kindest man ever. Jacob. Older than my father but younger than my grandfather so I don’t know to classify him. Every time he sees me, without fail, he loudly calls to me, “Ahh, my favorite customer is here. Kim! How are ya today, Kim?” Emphasizing my name each and every time. Cheeks turn red; I should have worn the hat.

A couple years ago, Jacob got me confused with someone else and called me by the wrong name. This sparked our friendship. He reminds me of this every other time I see him, and he often recounts the entire story to whichever cashier is within earshot. I play along and laugh at the appropriate time, wishing he would work a little faster. Impatient Man is behind me. Jacob hugs me hello, hugs me good-bye, and I don’t even know his last name.

He sees me at my best, like right after I’ve had lunch with a friend and stop in for some milk. And my worst, like the time I felt the need to personally question the gentleman in the parking lot who flipped me off because I got his parking space. That’s another story he likes to tell. (The time he was dressed up as Santa and walked up to me and said, “How are you today, Kim?” still has my kids rattled.)

This time, between bagging eggs and Cheetos, he pays me a compliment. “Jacob, you are too kind but I think you need to get your glasses adjusted. I look terrible and you know it.” We laugh, he insists, I contradict. I know the guy behind me hears, even though he now pretends to read the cover of Cooking Light. And I know he thinks a little cover-up would have done wonders.

As Jacob takes my groceries to the car, we take our time. This is when we catch up on the kids, his work schedule, and the price of groceries. His breathes like the 70-something-year-old-man he is and I wonder how I would ever know if something happened to him. He packs up my car, hugs my neck, and says he’ll be looking for me on my next trip. I secretly vow to make myself more presentable next time.

As I back out of the parking lot, I look in the rear view mirror and try to see who he was talking about.

Why is it so difficult to see ourselves as the bag-man does? Beneath the dirt and beyond the phony. Past the impatience, beneath the mask, and beyond the organic bananas, to the core. Past who we used to be, to who we have become. Every time we see ourselves as not-entirely-forgiven, or not-exactly-beautiful, or not-as-good as-our-neighbor, we undo everything that was accomplished on the cross.

We were made to walk in grace, to rest in mercy, and sometimes it takes people like the bag-man to gently remind us of that. God sees us bare and undone and loves us in spite of ourselves. Why can’t we do the same?

I think we could learn a lot from the bag-man.

1 Peter 3:4: Cultivate inner beauty, the gentle, gracious kind that God delights in. (The Message)

Buckle Up. Bad Weather Ahead!

Tuesday morning I dropped Sophie off in Leiper’s Fork to check out a school. The long drive is not something I typically do any other morning. Just think Tennessee farms, horses, and fog settling beneath the branches of empty trees on a cool winter morning. On the way home, I purposefully let up on the gas pedal and turned the radio off. The quiet helps me think. And remember.

It’s hard to believe that just two nights before, eerie tornado sirens were drowned out as the wind whipped through the Bradford pears and delivered hail and buckets of water.

This calm after the storm reminds me of a time when Sophie and I flew to Texas to visit my mom. On the way to the airport, Regi said, “Not such a great day to fly.” The sky was gray and the thunder deep within the horizon made me think the second coming was underway. I got nervous when the pilot came over the loud speaker to announce that the beverage service would be delayed. That always means trouble.

The plane’s ascent felt like I was riding in my mom’s blue Pinto on the dirt road of my childhood rather than in an MD 80. If you could get inside my mind at these times, you’d hear me praying the Rosary, meditating, reciting the books of the Bible, and then settling in as I lock into a familiar Rich Mullins tune. I make sure my bases are covered.

This particular flight occurred after I’d had a conversation with my mom about spatial disorientation. (I bring these things on myself.) I managed to convince myself that we were experiencing that phenomenon as we sliced through the clouds. Were we right side up or upside down? It looked as though the clouds were slapping the windows of the plane; we were in an all out tug-of-war as we climbed. Sophie nestled her head in my lap and fell asleep. I gripped my armrests as the guy in 14B read the newspaper.

Eventually we shot out of the clouds and we were sitting atop what resembled muddy cotton candy. Now that we were over the storm everything was breathtaking. Blue skies stretched as far as my eye could see. And not just any blue; it was bluer than anything Crayola has ever attempted. The airplane was so calm that I wondered if the storm had been that bad. Did I overreact? Finally the familiar ding echoed across the loud speaker and the illuminated seat belt disappeared.

Wouldn’t it be so much easier if we could all be ensured a smooth ride?

The truth is, we will encounter turbulence along our way. I’ve come to learn that often the only path to a blue sky is the one that goes right through a mean storm. I’m talking a choppy, knuckle-gripping squall that lasts longer than the weatherman predicted. But think of this: it’s only after the misery of winter that yellow daffodils are prompted from the ground!

Perhaps that blue sky is placed above us as an anchor. An anchor of hope that says we’re in for some tough times and that we need to buckle up. An anchor that reminds us there is something greater beyond the blue. An anchor, firm and steady.

Whatever it means for you, I pray you find the courage to get through your situation. After all, it’s usually the most uncomfortable road that takes you on the ride of your life!