Chicken and Noodles

Our central air went out last night.  Throughout the day we could feel the residual refrigerated air dissolving away, the hot humid Texas air eager to take up residence inside the house as well as outside.  We’ve been told that we’re lucky to be so quickly put on the list of repairs.  Air conditioning maintenance is a huge business in Texas.  It was way too hot to cook.  We had something delivered.  Devoured that meal, despite the heat.  Then flopped onto living room chairs, basking in the gentle breeze from the ceiling fan.

I don’t remember having central air as a kid.  I know we had a window unit.  My father was the bookkeeper in a plumbing shop; he got this unit at a huge discount.  We were the only house on the block with such a luxury.  Even so, it didn’t run all the time.  Yet I don’t remember being overwhelmingly hot as a kid. 

No matter how hot it was, my mother always had a hot meal on the table for dinner.  It had to be something hot, something freshly cooked.  I wondered for a moment what she would cook on this kind of night.  Then I remembered one of her most clever and economical creations.

I didn’t realize until I was an adult that we were poor.  My parents did everything possible to provide their very best for my sisters and me.  We had everything we ever wanted and needed.  Another thing I realized as an adult was how clever my mother was at making something out of nothing.  This hot, muggy, early Texas summer evening made me recall my mother’s Chicken and Noodles.

Let me give you the basic recipe.  Very little precise measuring.  Its just whatever you are lucky enough to find in the ice box, and improvise the rest.

One chicken, more or less, cut into pieces

Salt & Pepper

One onion

A couple of celery stalks

One bag of noodles (the twirly kind)

Wash the chicken.  This was way before all the warnings you now hear on the cooking channel.  I heard this story every time my mother cooked anything chicken.  “I grew up on a farm.  You have no idea how dirty food really is.  You have to wash everything.  Etc., etc., ….”   So I always wash raw chicken.  Mom always used her cast iron Dutch oven.  It was sizeable.  Put it on a medium-high burner and melt enough grease to cover the bottom with a quarter inch of grease.  (In those days we used bacon grease for everything.  It added incredible flavor.  Too bad we discovered that this is unhealthy.  Use a healthy oil of your choice.)  Season the chicken pieces and brown in the oil.  Try to brown as much of the surface as possible.   Remove to a platter.  Add the onion and celery and sauté for a bit. 

Here’s the thing.  You can take the time to finely chop these veggies or leave them sort of whole (onion sliced in half).  If they are whole, just remove them before adding the noodles.  Otherwise, the veggies become part of the dish.  It’s up to you.

Put the chicken pieces back in the pot.  Add water.  At least enough to be level with the chicken.  Cover the pot and simmer/boil for, oh, about 20 minutes or so.  Taste the broth and re-season if necessary.  Finally, dump a bag of noodles into this chicken and broth, simmer/boil till noodles are al dente and have absorbed most or all of the liquid.  It does not matter if you put back on the lit; your choice.  And that is the entire dish.

As I look back on it, there wasn’t a tremendous amount of “standing there cooking” time.  Once you get the chicken browned and into the pot, you could get on with other things.  For my mother, open a can of peas and that was the meal.  Not a bad way to feed a family of six with minimum effort.

This ultra-simple meal has always been one of my favorites.  I’ve played with it over the years and made a few adjustments for my taste.  I add chicken broth instead of water.  I sauté a healthy amount of sliced fresh mushrooms along with the veggies. I usually chop up a clove or two of garlic, and if I have it, some chopped bell pepper.  I’ve tried flouring the chicken to make a nice crust.  This works quite well.  It thickens the sauce.  But the dish is just as good without it, and less calories if you’re counting.  I pay my occasional homage to healthy eating by dumping in a bag of frozen edamame at the start of the boiling process.  By the time the dish is finished, these little soy beans are close to lima beans.  At least I tell myself that.

So that would be my mother’s way of putting a dinner on the table in the middle of a Texas heat wave.  I have eliminated the canned peas.  They were never my favorite.  I am enjoying those long ago memories as I lay in bed and pray for mind-numbing sleep.  And good night to all.