A new twist on classic comfort food: How a chicken pot pie brought on a world of hurt
The next time I throw out my back, I’d prefer a scenario with some glamour and intrigue. If I’m going to walk like The Beverly Hillbillies’ Jed Clampett for a week, a jaw-dropping back-story would be nice. The pain would almost be worth it, knowing I could relay an incident involving climbing rocks along the Amalfi Coast. Or rescuing an exotic kitten from a tall tree.
But no. My latest lower back fiasco involved an ordinary Costco chicken pot pie. You know the ones I’m talking about: pies with their own ZIP codes.
For years, I have rolled by the store’s display of the giant entrees. They are basically manhole covers with crisscross pastry strips that offer the promise of comfort food bubbling beneath a doughy weave. I would always pass, thinking, “I don’t have eight children. That thing is YUGE. Now where’s the unsatisfying egg white quiche?”
But life got busy last month. Dinner prep and planning became even more of a chore than it already is. I wanted a main dish I could throw in the oven and use for leftovers the following day(s). In a meal panic moment, I caved and bought Goliath’s edible poultry discus.
Aside from trying to avoid Kirkland frozen lasagna fatigue, what was I thinking? Really. Have I mentioned the pie’s enormity? Was I willing to endure the public scrutiny of having this industrial-sized thing roll down the checkout conveyor belt? This was not me, but yet it was.
Aside from feeling a tinge of existential angst, I managed to transport the unwieldy pot pie home without incident. As the sun set, I placed it on a baking sheet, threw it in the oven and patted myself on the back for knocking out the main course question on a hectic day. Maybe I had discovered a new item to add to the food rut rotation.
An hour or so later, the oven timer beeped. With mitts on, I flipped open the door and reached inside the aromatic furnace. As I pulled out the pie, this bubbling thing with its own gravitational force decided to surf down my barely angled baking sheet, aiming for the floor. For the sake of dinnertime, I would not let that happen. One does not sacrifice a main course at the 11th hour. No matter what.
I jerked, I twisted, I contorted myself to prevent the heavy pot pie from hitting the floor. Cirque Du Soleil, meet desperation dinner. A miracle ensued. Nothing spilled. Not a crumb. Not even a rogue pea could pop through the lattice pastry on my watch.
However.
The klutzy oven rescue torqued my back in a such a way I immediately knew I was in trouble.
Cue the Clampett tune: Listen to the story of a woman like Jed. Poor shoppin’ gal tryin’ to keep her family fed. Then one day she was scoopin’ out some food. And up from her back came a pain and a mood.
I managed to hurl the pie on the counter. Then I fell into amateur yoga-adjacent stretches right there on the kitchen floor, accompanied by a foul-mouthed mantra not suitable for repeating here. (Sometimes one must exhale with style.)
I’m not an expert on anyone else’s back pain, but I have learned if I stretch immediately and often, recovery time is quicker. But not fast enough. I was still slowed down for almost a week. They were key days that left me in a last-minute scramble to prepare for holidays and house guests. You can imagine what I did not feed them.
For the rest of my life I will hesitate to gamble on new “convenience” entrees. Winner, winner, chicken dinner? Nope.
Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com
