I don’t like pot pie. Well, deep inside I do, since my blood is English – way back to my great-great grandparents. So sure, I like pot pie the same way I like rose gardens and floral wallpaper and hot tea with milk.
But I used to never eat pot pie because, to be honest, it’s fattening; all flour and butter in the crust; butter and flour in the gravy; and then a speck of chicken in there. With maybe a pea or two.
But when I began teaching on Tuesday nights, my guy offered to cook once a week. Hooray! Except my guy doesn’t know where we keep the salt and pepper, much less a pan or even a cooking spoon.
However, he serves his Tuesday night masterpiece proudly and joyfully as soon as I return from my writing class, generally around 7:40 p.m.
Have you guessed what his culinary chef-d’oeuvre is yet?
My guy drives 30 minutes out of his way on Tuesdays to a country farm that sells amazing pot pies. He pops it in the 400 degree oven 90 minutes before I arrive home. He even steams some asparagus to go with the carrots and peas that float in the gravy.
When I race into the house, smelling that delectable gravy and noticing lit candles and a cozy fire warming up the room, I realize something . . .
I LOVE chicken pot pie.