I am by no means a good cook. I know I can cook, but I prefer the easiest of recipes, the most basics of food, and I tend to stick to chicken. I’m from the Midwest, can you blame me? At least I don’t make tater-tot casserole on a regular basis. Or ever. Mainly because I have no idea how to do it, not because it looks like the most disgusting dish you’ve ever seen (to be fair, looks can be deceiving, because it actually is pretty damn good).
Growing up, I ate everything and anything that my mom put on a plate in front of me. That is, as long as she also put a plate in front of my imaginary friend Jessica as well. And believe me, Jessica was ALWAYS hungry, so there better be a full plate of food at her seat. There was one food that Jessica and I both hated (pardon my french): Shit on a Shingle. If you’ve ever been unfortunate enough to have heard of this disgusting dish, then you feel my pain. Don’t believe me? Just Google it. The one time my mom tried to make us eat Shit on a Shingle (I mean, couldn’t they have called it something a little more appealing?), I refused to eat it. I sat at the dinner table until midnight (probably 8pm), and had to go to bed without dinner. Don’t feel sad for me, Jessica had to go to bed without dinner too.
So why did I tell you that little child-abuse story? Because I learned a life lesson. If I ever procreate, my children will eat everything I make. I will name my dishes things like, “Amazing Bubbles from Heaven” (brussel sprouts) or “Rainbows and Unicorns” (meatloaf). How could they refuse?
I will also feed them my famous White-Chicken Chili. Only I won’t need to call it anything other than what it is, because it’s already fabulous. Not only is it ridiculously amazing, it’s also really easy. Which is why they will love it as much as I do.