This is what my husband made yesterday, including the homemade crust. It’s a chicken pot pie (or “potch pie,” as our daughter called such things long ago).
Even though Ted is back at the office most days, he still nurtures me and his love of cooking by preparing leftover-able dishes and planning other weekday meals on the weekends. He often quotes his late father’s philosophy that “food is love.”
So where does that leave me, whose duties are cleanup, salad prep and table setting?
After all, while he made this dish, I was out on a run, stopping for a balance beam/singing performance and then a FaceTime conversation with my dad before a quick run back.
I was out of Ted’s way.
We have a galley kitchen—cramped quarters for two cooks—so he’s forever shooing me out as I try to clean as he goes.
And I’m no cook, anyway. Left to my own devices, I’d live on cereal, nuts, yogurt, fruits and veggies, plus the salmon filets he’s taught me how to broil. I may not share my husband’s obsession with (or talent for) cooking, but I’ll never miss one of his meals.
Food is love—and I’ll never let my chef forget how grateful I am for making our lives delicious.
That’s Brain Injury For Ya 