Farmer Style Chicken Stew and Biscuits from The Careless Cook

 

Farmer Style Chicken Stew and Biscuits from The Careless Cook

 

As I have told my three faithful readers many times, I don’t make any difficult dishes.  Let me add a couple of addendums:  I don’t use any ingredients you haven’t heard of, AND if I can make it, you can make it.

 

Which is not to say I don’t sometimes blend unusual combinations.  Take biscuits, for example.  Hey, if you cook with me, you have to expect some twists and turns and blind alleys. 

 

Take my good friend, Daphne, who sometimes asks questions designed to flummox The Careless Cook.  “Does Chinese food come from Japan?”  Oh, Daphne, where to begin?  This is what The Careless Cook calls a blind alley. 

 

“Why doesn’t everyone just speak English? The French sound so stupid!”  Daphne, dear, let’s keep it simple, although I don’t think you can keep it any other way.  Care for another bottle of wine and a straw, while I explain? 

 

Farmer Style Chicken Stew

 

Why do I call it ‘Farmer Style’?  Because, As you will see, I used every vegetable I had in my kitchen.  At this point, the inebriants, who haphazardly follow my instructions, skipping many of the letters, are no doubt blubbering, “Hey Buckaroo, where is the damn recipe???”

 

On their behalf, let’s slosh along.

 

Suggested Ingredients for farmer style stew

(Biscuit recipe to follow)

 

6 skinless, boneless chicken thighs

1 red bell pepper, roasted, peeled, seeded, and roughly chopped

1 green bell pepper, roasted, peeled, seeded, and roughly chopped

1 sweet onion, peeled and roughly chopped

3 large stalks of celery, finely cut crossways

1 cup sundried tomatoes, chopped (I used those in oil – see photo)

1 large golden beet, peeled and cut in 1 in cubes (a substitute for potato.)

1 carton of chicken broth (32 oz) PLUS one cube of chicken broth (if you want a richer broth)

Olive Oil

Italian seasoning (see photo to see what I used)

Salt and pepper to taste

Heat the oven to 400ºF (200ºC) By the way, did you know that Fahrenheit and Centigrade are the same at -40 degrees?  I find that fascinating, although not as fascinating as …..sorry, I need to press on.

 

Coat the chicken thighs with olive oil and dust heavily with Italian seasoning.  Bake for about 20 minutes, but not long enough to dry them out.  Chop into bite sized pieces.

 

Slosh a little olive oil in a frying pan and toss in the chopped onions.   Cook on medium heat until they are translucent and slightly brown.

 

Pour the chicken broth into a large pot.   Add all the vegetables, plus the onions and chicken.  Cover and cook until the golden beets are cooked, but not falling apart.

 

Taste and add salt, pepper, and a cube of chicken broth. (I used one)  Also, add more Italian seasoning to taste)

Oat-milk Biscuits

 

Oven to 450ºF (230ºC)

 

2 cups flour

3 tablespoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

2-3 pinches black pepper

6 oz melted butter

1 cup oat milk (I like Oatly brand)

 

In a large mixing bowl, add the dry ingredients and mix well.  Pour in the melted butter (I used the bits of here and there butter I needed to finish with…half vegan butter and half regular butter).

 

Stir  in the oat milk and mix well.  I mixed first with a wooden spoon and after it came together, I used my hands.  To finish, dust a counter and knead the dough a bit.  Roll it out to about an inch thick and cut in rounds.  Place on a baking sheet and bake for 12 minutes.

 

Ok, Daphne, let me spare you some breath.  I used oat milk because I’d never tried it for biscuits.  Yes, it turned out deliciously.

 

Can you use other vegetables?  Yes, Daphne, use whatever the hell suits you.  What does chicken taste like?  It tastes like rattlesnake.

 

Now give me a chance to make a huge Manhattan before you ask again.

 

 

 

 

Scrambled English

 

English is a funny language, difficult to understand.  Lots of homonyms and worse, lots of words that are spelled the same, but mean different things.

 

Elephants have trunks, so do trees, and travelers, and so do trains on a trunk line.

 

Which brings up the word line:  A telephone line, a party line, drawing a line in the sand, giving your girlfriend a line, standing in line, a fishing line, a clothesline, a beeline, a punch line. Standing in a lineup. Delivering a clever line.

 

Naughty Words

 

Naughty words carry their own weight, but if you say them in a more dignified manner….

 

Quote a Bible verse: Go forth and multiply.

 

Enjoy intercourse with yourself!

 

You’re a vagina!  Has a certain crowd appeal.

 

Test a man before you call him an idiot. “You’re no smarter than a toadstool!”  See if he stops to ponder the pros and cons.

 

Drop a brick on your foot?  “Coitus!”  Draws a crowd of octogenarians faster than free fried chicken.

 

Words that don’t have an opposite but need one:

 

Unruly – ruly?  He and his wife were ruly, and shared a love of regular verbs, but divorced over the use of  pronouns.

 

Awesome  - awesomeless?  When the rancher belches with her mouth full, she looks awesomeless, and unsettles the cattle who fear earthquakes.

 

Disgruntled – gruntled?  He smiled a gruntled smile to hide the pain, until the Novocain wore off and he suddenly disgruntled his lunch.

 

Ineffable – effable?  He’s so effable I can describe him in one word:  But, let’s talk about you, beautiful.

 

Inert – ert?  Confucius say, golfer who put ert firecracker in shorts, likely to lose balls and have bent driver.  That Confucius is such a kidder! 

 

Incorrigible – corrigible?  That virgin is too corrigible, unlike her sister who is well known and liked by many.  

 

Disheveled – sheveled?  Unlike her unruly hair; her front teeth are are quite sheveled and admired!

 

Innocuous – nocuous?  Nothing’s as nocous as the obvious.

 

Intrepid – trepid?  He is so trepid, he got caught catching a cold.

 

Nonchalant – chalant?  So chalant, she worries about being underdressed in a nudist colony.  I agree she’s barely presentable.

 

Nonplussed – plussed? You can tell she’s been plussed. And enjoyed it. And looks forward to her next plussing, and afterwards a celebratory cocktail.

 

Overwhelm(ed) – whelm(ed)?  That whelmed man can juggle hot coals while Salsa dancing and still remember the name of his arresting officer.

 

Postpone – prepone?  National dog breath week is preponed.  When cat owners found out, they turned away in disgust.

 

Ruthless – ruthmore?   “A little ruthmore can go a long way and a buxom Ruth even morer.”

 

I’ll give you a tip.  I’ve only covered the tip of the iceberg.  But, feel free to relax and tip back a couple, and try not to tip over your drink.

 

Now let’s take a look at “draw.”

 

You can draw a card, or a tree, or draw your gun, or draw a line in the sand, or draw straws.  Put your clothes in a drawer, or wear your drawers.

 

So, is English a difficult language?  I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.  Please do so quietly so at not to draw attention to yourself.

 

 

 

 

His New Novel

 

His New Novel

 

Even from a distance, as soon as she walked through the wrought iron, waist high gate and sauntered across the restaurant's crowded patio, he knew she was beautiful, although others might differ, especially those who embraced the petulant faced, waiver thin, cookie cutter blond versions of womanhood.  The male models are not any better.  Thin as washboards, with every look equally dipped in the bucket of petulance.

 

Why do fashion magazines pick skeletal men and women, with dead eyes and lips so puffy they need to be muzzled?

 

This woman’s smile of pearly teeth would light up a room, or a patio for that matter, and her Marilyn Monroe curves, which today’s Hollywood would describe as fat, would capture every male eye.  Oh, the gently swaying hips under a peach and white springtime skirt, the billowing white, sleeveless blouse, the sparkling blue eyes, the careless way she sat, and how she lightly crossed her legs and tossed her hair before sipping her flute of champagne.  Come to think of it, he couldn’t see her eyes from where he sat, or the pearly teeth, but it didn’t really matter. Ah, the long, careful fingers that held the stem. Tastefully, elegant red fingernails and toenails on beautifully formed, sandaled feet. He could barely see the sandals or the feet, but his mind swam in a cloudy dream.

 

No matter her real name, to him she would be Juliane, the star of his budding novel.  Thoughts swirled with the places he’d take her. To the broad streets of Paris, of course, but also London and Brussels and the sun blessed Italian Riviera, with it’s outdoor cafes and white cloth covered tables, delicately chilled white wines that forever live in memory, and bowls of the freshest harvest from the sea, served in large, colorful bowls by white shirted waiters.  And the bread!  On my wonder, the bread, a perfectly, crusty match for butter and wine sauced black mussels.

She would speak English and Italian and French, naturally.  Who could win the favors of such a woman?  Only a spy.  No, not an ordinary spy, but a young, cultured man of wealth who’d been trapped into spying. Yes, that kind of spy.  Hummmm…a man of noble blood and exquisite taste, whose family is torn between cooperation with those they detest and preservation of house and home.

 

When?  What year?  The war years are most interesting, or the buildup leading to the war years, when the destiny of all of Europe was a guessing game, fueled by whispered conversations in taverns and coffee shops, laced with intrigue that bonds new friends and sly enemies in a chess match of mistrust and survival.

 

1937.  Perfect.  Franco has set the destiny of Spain in a bloody, terrible conflict that won’t end for another two years.  Only the besieged and starving cities of Madrid and Barcelona are still held by the Republicans.  And, now that Germany and Italy had seen how it’s done, they will probably wade into the depths.  Or will they? Ah, the glory of the indefinite scribe.

 

His pen inked a page in his black Moleskin notebook, the skeleton of the plot assembled in black ink on the white pages, with pauses to allow his scribbling to catch up with his scurrying thoughts. Then another page and yet another.

 

Perhaps his novel should be set in the darkness of prewar Paris with optimism fading to despair, amid dangerous thoughts that the huge French army might not prevail, and flanked by France’s desperate hope that the Maginot Line could withstand the onslaught of Germany’s iron fist.

 

He glanced again at the woman. Was she talking to her companion, an older woman?  No, she was listening. Then why were her lips….oh my god, she’s chewing gum, her jaw so slack, he could almost hear the smacking of her lips. That would not do.  But, he could write that out.  No matter. Still, it disturbed him, causing fissures in his sense of perfection.  The fissures slowly became open cracks. It was as if the Mona Lisa, which the French call la Joconde (the happy one), had been splattered with brown globs of freshly spit chewing tobacco.

 

No matter.  He’d deal with that later. He continued to write.  The white paper turned a light gray as a cloud passed.  He stole another glance.  She was smoking a cigarette while chewing gum and he saw her in profile. Deep wrinkles that a crow would be proud of on the corner of her eye.  Made him wish he’d ignored her and left well enough alone.  

 

But, he pressed on, his curiosity a wildcat clawing and hissing.  She had a tattoo on her wrist.  He could just barely make out some guy’s name and something like a protestation of eternal love.  Eternally ugly was more like it.  The tattooist must have been a nervous, one-eyed drunk. Green and red and black ink?  Gauche.  

 

She was older than he’d imagined.  The cloud drifted and the sun came back to reveal dark roots when she tossed her hair. She shouldn’t toss it.  She should have a little pride and wear a close fitting cap or beret.  Hopefully not a ball cap.

 

She looked his way as she reached back and scratched well below her hip.  No doubt she would say something vulgar, then belch.

 

Well, he thought, he could still use her in the novel.  Maybe she could service drunken sailors on the docks at Le Havre.  Maybe she already had. But, she didn’t look French, or well traveled. More likely she’d been fired from a run down coffee shop for being late to work and having dirt under her fingernails. If he used her, it had to be in a minor role to add some color. He’d just have to kill her off in chapter two.

 

He knew he was being shallow.  She would fit well as Faganella in a new version of Oliver Twisted.

 

Nope, he wasn’t going to change horses, not after already having scribed fourteen pages in his notebook. He’d stick with Paris, 1937 and make her a Nazi spy.  Vicious.  Uncaring.  Pulling the wings off of flies. He’d change her name to Helga, code name Tart. But, he’d still kill her off.  The mere thought settled him.

 

He looked around, searching the crowd. Got to be a heroine here.

 

Southern Sausage Biscuits from The Careless Cook

 

Southern Sausage Biscuits from The Careless Cook

 

Need a quick and very tasty hors d’oeuvre?  You cooking husbands know the drill.  You’ve heard it before.  “Honey, I’m having the girls over for tea, but I need something for them to nibble on. By the way, they’ll be here in a little over an hour.”

 

“Great,” you’re thinking, “I’ll have another hour to sleep and greet these charmers in my bathrobe, right after I polish off two shots of Jim Beam.”

 

I’m here to save the day and postpone a tongue lashing from your one and only, who does not favor Jimmy the Beam for breakfast, or lunch for that matter.

 

Where did I get such a marvelously easy and tasty recipe and why do I tag on “southern” to sausage and biscuit?  Well, you see, my momma was from South Carolina and a wonderful cook.  When I was old enough to hold a spoon, I was stirring this or that, amid murmurs of “This needs a little more salt”, or “I add allspice to the crust.” Her chicken fried steak, pounded by my father with a coke bottle to tenderize, was a treat that had neighbors and stray cats swarming.  Then there was her lemon cake and deviled crab.  Oh, honey chile, I could go on until your taste buds melt.  When we lived in Michigan, every winter she and my father made chocolate candy of endless varieties, left to cool on the back porch, on a frozen marble slab.  A friend of mine hit it on the head:  To hell with Godiva Chocolate!

 

Ok, grab your food processor and let’s hit the culinary road!

 

First the biscuit recipe

 

Heat the oven to 450ºF

 

2 cups flour (I’ve tried both all purpose and bread flour…makes no diff)

1 teaspoon salt

3 tablespoons baking powder

6 pats of salted butter

¾ cup of milk

 

Put everything but the milk in the food processor.  Mix and then add the milk. Mix until the ingredients form a ball in the processor. Too dry?  Gingerly add a little more milk.  Don’t want soggy dough!

 

Flour a large space on the counter and roll out the biscuit dough in a rectangle, a little longer than it is wide.  The dough should be about a quarter inch thick.

 

The filliing

½ pound of loose sausage (I used half a pound of Jimmy Dean Natural Sausage)

 

All sorts of possibilities.   Use hot sausage or add cayenne to the Natural, or use mild or hot Italian sausage.  You’re the cook!  Do what the hell you want!

 

Use fingers or a spatula to spread the sausage over the dough.  I used both, just because I’m not particular and just want to get the job done.

 

Once the sausage is thinly and evenly spread, wet one edge of the dough to make it stick, and roll it up jelly roll style (see photo).  I find it's easier to cut if you let the whole roll rest in the frig for about 30 minutes.

Cut half-inch wide rounds and place on a baking sheet. Bake for about 12 minutes. As I’ve said many times, every oven is different, so add or subtract the minutes.  The sausage biscuits should be lightly browned.  But, don’t overdo it or the biscuits will be hard and your significant other will never forgive you for morning Jim Beam breath.  You want fluffy biscuits and a fluffy life!  Sage advice from The Careless Cook.

 

 

Unexpected Visitors

 

Unexpected Visitors

 

The email was succinct.  “We are coming a little south of you to visit our grandchildren, and were wondering if we might stop in for a couple of days to see how you’re doing.  Should be there tomorrow morning.”

 

Clora and Alfred Wiggins were old friends, at least friends of my former wife.  They’d been our neighbors when we lived in the part of the country where snow was thought of as so beautiful!and interminable winters a gift from the creator of all things large and small.  My wife had shared that view, until we moved to the land of sunshine and sunrises over the Atlantic.  Then she suddenly developed a keen yen for golf and an even keener yen for the golf instructor, Jack “Wizard” Campbell.  

 

Clora and Alfred still lived in the land of the eternal snowplow, and had for almost sixty years. Both are older than I, but also have personalities and dispositions that are more suited to hibernating bears than more social animals.

 

He was a retired tree surgeon and she had been president of the garden club for a short while.  Not sure what they do now.  Probably putting a keen edge on insufferability, and adding to their list of suspicions.

 

My first question I asked myself was, how long did they plan to stay and the second was why after years of silence did they want to see how I was doing?

 

But no matter the answers, I couldn’t turn them away.  I could withstand almost anything for just a couple of days.

 

They pulled into my driveway in their RV on Wednesday, with their Irish Wolf hound, Vagabond.  You only need to know a few things about Vagabond, besides his immensity.  First off, his nose is a crotch rocket. Steel cups mandatory for those things you hold dear.  He also requires four or five square meals a day, and thinks of a yard as a port-a-potty that goes where he goes.  Clora and Alfred don’t seem to mind the mounds that looked like African warrior ants built their dream castles on my lawn.  I do mind.

 

“Oh, he’s just in a new place,” Clora says.  I’d like to send him to a better place.

 

Yes, and he finds a new place every time the front door opens, if he makes it that far.  The porch and my welcome mat will do in a pinch.

 

“What do you have planned for us to do while we’re here?” asked Alfred, showing the same smile he’d use if he held a winning ticket at The Kentucky Derby.

 

I wanted to say, “Well, the first thing is a game of dog shit removal. Sorry I don’t have a shovel. You’ll have to use your hands. ”  But, I didn’t say that.  I could have said, “Let’s try your sniper skills with a game of put the dog down.”  But, I didn’t say that either.

 

I’d previously suggested they keep their mucus mutt in the RV, but Clora must have heard that suggestion before and was ready for it.  “Vagabond thinks he’s a human and I just can’t bare not to have him where we are.  He gets so lonely.”

 

Why oh why can’t he get lonely for the RV and hump the built in sofa instead of mine? 

 

I haven’t told you what Clora and Alfred look like.  Clora has short, rather unkempt gray hair, wears rimless spectacles and has a body that last exercised toward the final stages of the Civil War.  I’ve begun to think the name Clora was her mother’s little joke, short for chloroform.  Her endless opinions could make lemmings take another stab at cliff jumping.  She can begin a reasonable, if useless story about nothing and still manage to tag on a recounting of each and every cousin’s marriage, the good and bad of society and why foreigners should learn English before they dare… etc, etc, etc.  I sat quietly and was quickly striding toward dreamland when Alfred dared to disagree. “All foreigners aren’t bad.  At least some of them.”

 

Clora’s look of damnation shut him up like a well hit one iron to the forehead.

 

Alfred is not a bad guy, as tree surgeons go. He does shave and has clean fingernails, and unlike his darling wife, he is razor thin, and keeps tidy what’s left of gray, wispy hair short.  He does follow his wife into the world of rimless spectacles, last purchased at a discount during the great depression. 

 

They finally got down to brass tacks over dinner at the Golden Diner Buffet.  “It’s my darling’s favorite,” said Alfred.  “She really likes the custard pie, don’t you sweetie?”

 

Like it? This woman’s appetite could scare pastry chefs.  I’m surprised the desert server didn’t say, “Sorry ma’am, only one pie to a trough.”

 

Oh, well, I told myself, just one more day and good god almighty, free at last.

 

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Alfred begin, “and if it’s ok, our son has gotten a bad cold and we’d like to stay another few nights.  You know my Clora has a heart condition and type 2 diabetes, plus high blood pressure.  We just can’t take a chance.”

 

Damn, doctor, this sure is puzzling, especially the part about the diabetes.  Yes, why don’t we start her on two packs of Marlboros a day and keep an eye on her.

 

“Goodness, I wish I could say yes, but Local 151 Bearers of Bad News has it’s reunion tomorrow.”  Once again, I forfeited the right to sanity and didn’t say it.

 

I nodded a simple yes and even managed a smile.  Not my best smile, certainly, but weak and mournful fit the occasion. 

 

“Oh, wonderful,” Alfred said.  “Tonight we’d like to take you out to dinner at the Lickin’ Chicken.”

 

“Do they have a full service bar?”

 

“My Clora and I don’t drink.”  He gave me a pious glance.  “Our savior doesn’t approve.”

 

Lots of different thoughts on that.  Jesus didn’t turn the water into grape juice.  Would have been a different outcome, possibly involving violence. Once again I held my tongue, except to offer a suggestion.

 

“You ought to try it.  Really helps with pain and stress and boredom.”

Three Sensational Novels!

Three Sensational Novels!

Ah, the vanity of self promotion.  With most of my faithful readers ensconced in their tidy mansions, with wives or loved ones, living the quietly dull life and eagerly yearning for adventure, I take this brief moment to reintroduce you to the pleasures of reading…specifically my three novels, which Amazon will so thoughtfully deliver to your door in paperback form, or via electronic delivery for fans of Kindle.

The covers of all three are on the both the top and right side of this page, and have certain things in common:  They are all southern mysteries with southern charm and dark secrets….but of course practically every novel is a mystery.   All three take place in Cassarora County, a fictitious place that probably sounds like a place where you grew up, crawling with quirky characters, and blistering secrets. All three have stand-alone plots, but the second and third novels share central characters.

To take them in order, and I know you want to!:

Cassavora County – local politics, a possible murder, and a tangled school board that knows a little less about education than high school drop outs.  Jake Morgan is running for a post on the school board and finds he's in a snake-pit. Ah, the twists and turns of small county politics, with very private and dark goings on in the privacy of locked door and closed curtains.

As one reader wrote:  The whole political mudslinging package comes coated in Southern Fried charms, with an unmistakable whiff of honeysuckle that will keep you spellbound to the end of every antebellum page.  … Edward Rasimus, author of several classic books on the air war in Vietnam

Lowdown. Dirty. Shame. introduces Jack Hudson, a small town writer who volunteers to help a college frat buddy keep tract of a wayward wife, someone with whom Jack is very familiar.  And before he can take a breath, he’s caught up in a wife’s disappearance and surrounded by dangerous secrets.  A private investigator who's not sure he's an investigator and all of a sudden definitely doesn't want to be.

A reader’s comments:  A treat for readers…Jack Hudson, a likeable guy in a small town…He’s witty, smart and attractive, a wicked trifecta…If you like to root for the good guy, that at times looks dirty, then Jack is your man and this book is a must read!  William Stroud second novel, Lowdown. Dirty. Shame. is yet another fun read, with wit and charm, just like his debut novel, Cassavora County.   …Stephanie McKee, noted educator and world traveler.

Maybe Murder is the latest novel in the misadventures of Jack Hudson.

As usual, Jack is caught in the sticky business of life and death, kill or be killed.  And he’s being blackmailed. And the body of a girlfriend’s ex is found in his home.  And, his girlfriends, old and new, have their own secrets and agendas.  Such is the life of a small town writer.  The situation in Cassavora County has never been darker, or more confusing, or deadly.  Somehow Jack has got to figure out how to survive the madness, while sorting out his love life, staying out of jail, and most importantly staying alive.

One note of caution:  As you desperately prowl Amazon in a frenzied search for these fine, glorious, interesting southern mysteries, use both the author’s name, William Stroud, and the name of the book. There are several William Strouds on Amazon and many similar book titles.

Chicken Chorizo Stew from The Careless Cook

 

Chicken Chorizo Stew from The Careless Cook

 

I went into a local supermarket for a single item that had nothing to do with food.  But on the way to getting paper towels, I passed the meat counter and a small, innocuous sign that claimed if I bought one package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, they’d give me a second one FREE!

 

My cooking brain was immediately captured by the boundless possibilities.

 

As they say, follow your dream, but don’t pass up opportunities.  My dream was to buy paper towels…

 

But, once you start down the path of opportunistic occasions, you can’t just turn off the flow of creative juices.  Hey, sliced fresh mushrooms at half price certainly fell into that category.  Into my basket they went.  A package of baby carrots?  Certainly.  A can of Goya black beans, 30% off, likewise a small can of…

 

Men and women of the jury, do you blame an innocent and very careless cook for expanding his dream from paper towels to a proper repast?

 

What if Orville and Wilbur had stuck to just making bicycles, or Henry Ford had settled for making one tin lizzie at a time?  Think of Gordon Ramsey stopping after he gloried over his first peanut butter sandwich!

 

Of course the world would have been better off if the folks at the Wuhan Lab had been a tad more careful following their opportunities.  There are exceptions.

 

But, I wasn’t about to stop my dreams for chicken breasts just because others had minor shortcomings here and there!  My mind was churning far past chickens.  Wonderful, flavorful chicken Stew! Time to add some spice to my life!

 

Time to add some spice to yours!  Forget about ordering a pizza, or settling for a bowl of cereal.  Think big! Think marvelously tasty!  Think about….

 

Chicken Chorizo Stew by The Careless Cook

 

Ingredients

3 large, boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into bite-sized pieces

1 32 oz carton of chicken broth

2 cups baby carrots

1 large onion, diced (I used a sweet onion)

2 cups (1 package) sliced mushrooms

1 can black beans, strained and rinsed

1 small can mild, diced chiles

1 large chorizo sausage, quartered and sliced (I used the hot Portuguese version of chorizo)

Several stalks of fresh oregano. 

Olive oil, as needed

 

But, as with any careless cook, if you don’t have exactly what you need, flex your culinary muscles.  No problem using another type of beans or onion, or peeling and chopping regular size carrots. Don’t like chorizo, use smoked sausage. No oregano in your kitchen garden?  Use the dried version, or pick another herb you like. Things are still going to turn out deliciously fine!

 

Puttin’ It Together

In a frying pan, sauté the mushrooms in a little olive oil until they are golden.  Add the onions and cook until translucent.  Remove mushrooms and onions from the pan and put them in a large soup pot.

In the same frying pan, add a little more oil and sauté the bite sized chicken chunks. When they’re browned, add them to the soup pot, along with the chorizo, the black beans and the green chilies.  Pour in the chicken broth.  Toss in the stalks of oregano. Cook on medium heat and give the stew a quick stir. 

Put the top on the soup pot and let it simmer for about 30 minutes to allow the flavors to blend. Remove the oregano stalks before serving.

 

Yes, it is delicious!  Yes, you should give yourself a pat on the back.  I suggest putting down your glass of wine before you do that.

 

Now time to follow the opportunity for another glass full to accompany this wonderful and remarkably careless meal.