I'm a former teacher and current stay at home mom with an insane passion for food. I love cooking (and eating) good, satisfying food, prepared simply with fresh ingredients. I've been known to talk to my food as I cook it, and I despise those little stickers they put on produce.
As a baby gourmand, I grew up around people who cooked. So I never questioned my ablity to cook, I just did it. With a 1973 set of Better Homes & Gardens cookbooks as my guide, I began experimenting and creating.
I eventually found myself enrolled at the French Culinary Institute in NYC in a program geared towards "serious amateurs". I spent 10 hours a week in my chef's uniform, chopping, mixing, sautéing, and braising. My experience at the institute armed me with a repertoire of skills that impacts the way I approach everything in the kitchen.
Now with a husband, a big dog, and three kids later, I'm sharing my culinary skills with the world.
One evening, when my sisters and I were young, my parents left us eating our dinner at the kitchen table. My father was in the swimming pool, cleaning it from the inside with one of those large nets for fishing out fallen leaves. My mother was standing outside the pool, chatting with him as he worked. And we, my two younger sisters and I, were calmly enjoying our dinner. Calmly, that is, until our youngest sister dug her fingers into either side of the stick of butter which sat on the table, grabbing handfuls of butter in each hand, which she then proceeded to eat. Straight up mouthfuls of cold butter.
My sister and I were appalled…the fingers in the communal food…the ingesting of pure milk fat. We were certain that our parents would want to be informed of this major dining transgression. If they’d taken away my sister’s knife privileges after she’d licked a butter knife, they would almost certainly take butter away from our youngest sis. Right?? And like many young siblings, we smugly delighted in the prospect of the other’s consequences for poor choices.
So, my sister and I go running outside, shouting, “Mommy, mommy, mommy,” who was in the middle of a conversation with our father and promptly shooed us away. “But, Mommy…” we persisted, confident in the righteousness of our interruption. She again directed us back to our dinners. So we just shouted it, “She’s dug her fingers into the butter.” We enthusiastically demonstrated, with an Oscar worthy tattle-telling performance. “And she’s eating it.”
Our mother ended her conversation mid-sentence and quickly moved into the kitchen to deal with our sister and her butter-slathered fingers. I can’t remember if she lost her butter privileges or not. What I do remember is our mother’s immediate shift from being inconvenienced by our interruption to urgently dealing with the incident at hand. We’d proven our cause to be worthy of interrupting.
I had a parenting butter incident of my very own a few days ago. I had been trying to prepare dinner and the boys were in rare form; wildly running around the kitchen, stealing components of their dinner from their plates before I’d finished, and engaging in all manners of daredevil mischief which further diminished the odds that I’d ever complete dinner. I shooed them all into the living room. “Go watch tv. Leave me alone for a minute so I can get dinner on the table.”
Liam and Lucas reluctantly complied. James stuck around in the kitchen going about his normal business of pushing chairs around to access countertop supplies and opening the fridge in search of his beloved apple slices. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, standing in the light of the open fridge doors, chanting “Apple, apple, apple, apple…” I went about the dinner preparations, with my back turned to him. He became quiet and I’d assumed he’d temporarily given up his quest for precious apples.
And then Lucas comes into the kitchen, whining “Mommy, mommy, mommy…” I shooed him away in the same manner my mother had shooed me away at the pool. “But, Mommy…” he continued. I was becoming annoyed. I sent him away. He persisted, “But Gooba (our pet name for the baby) is eating bacon.”
I spun around, with the same swift shift of my mother at the pool. And sure enough, the baby was standing there with two handfuls of cooked bacon, which had been sitting on a plate in the fridge, happily snacking on his discovered fridge treasure.
I let him eat the bacon. It’s bacon, after all, and I’m not some kind of monster who steals bacon from babies. He was a smart baby to recognize the value of his find.
Providing your baby doesn’t steal your bacon before you get a chance to use it, you should make this spectacular bacon-mushroom stuffed chicken. This recipe is fully inspired by a friend, who chopped up and stuffed some leftover bacon-stuffed mushrooms I’d made for her holiday party, into a few chicken breasts for an easy day-after-party dinner. Genius use of leftover stuffed mushrooms. Taking that lead, I modified my recipe for Bacon-Stuffed Mushrooms to be intentionally used as a filling for chicken and paired it all with a creamy sour cream and mushroom gravy for a simple and satisfying dinner.
Today’s Focus on Technique – Stuffed Meat Safety
When cooking stuffed meats, it is important to ensure that both the meat and the stuffing are cooked to a safe temperature. This is one of the major challenges with cooking larger stuffed items, like a whole turkey, where it will take much longer for the center stuffing to reach a safe temperature, while the surrounding turkey overcooks. In smaller cuts, like a stuffed chicken breast, it’s easier to bring both components to a safe temperature without overcooking the meat. To check for a safe temperature, it is important to test the temperature of both the meat and the stuffing. Do this by inserting an instant-read meat thermometer into both components of the dish. Poultry is safely cooked at 165 degrees.
Bacon-Mushroom Stuffed Chicken Breasts
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