When I sat down to write about this chicken salad, I planned to start out by telling you about the first time I had it.

Which was, of course, when Miss Beccaboo was a baby and me and my mom and my grandma and my aunt and my cousin (etc.) went to visit my (new-to-me) mother’s cousins. The three talkative, boisterous sisters rustled us up a fancy luncheon that included three times as many plates as needed (you know, a plate to hold the plate to hold the plate that holds the food) and this chicken salad. That’s the first time I ate this salad. I remember begging the recipe.

But come to think of it, wasn’t the chicken salad at my college graduation, too? That afternoon (Mr. Handsome and I had only seven months of marriage under our belts and no little babies in sight) my parents arrived with a boatload of food to serve the gazillion guests crammed into our three-room apartment. There were baked beans and potato salad and fruit, and—yes, I’m sure of it—that chicken salad.

So from which of the two occasions does this salad originate? Clearly, I’m all a-muddle. Could it be that I so love chicken salad that I’ve inserted it into any and all of my party memories?

It was at my dad’s surprise 50th birthday party. I know this because I helped serve the food, some of which we hid in the washing machine because we didn’t want Dad to look in the fridge and wonder why we needed five heads of lettuce and all those grapes. (Not that he would’ve ever noticed because he’s clueless like that, but we played it safe anyway.) I have a clear memory of a huge platter mounded high with chicken salad, the bowl of crunchy almonds sitting pretty alongside. There was also a song that my brothers sang, a song about an old man’s request for his remains to get used to fertilize the tomatoes, but when I emailed my brother to ask him for the words, he hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.

Give me a break. As if I could make something like that up?

There was chicken salad, though. Of that I am positive.

Last weekend there was chicken salad in my house and it wasn’t even party time. Unless you count getting well enough to boil two chickens and chop grapes party-worthy. Which, considering how miserable I had been, I do.

It was just me in my kitchen with a wicked hankering for chicken salad, slicing and stirring to beat the setting sun (for pictures, you know), and then standing at the counter, fork in hand, scarfing down the deliciousness as fast as I could, groaning and moaning and uttering squeaky squealy exclamations of joy. It was a regular old weekend evening, but I sure whooped it up good.

Thus proving my point. Which is that chicken salad makes any occasion a party.

And that, my dears, is a fact worth remembering.

Chicken Salad
From Whoknowswhere.

This salad is meant to stand on its own and not as the filling for a sandwich. We sometimes eat it with crackers and cheese even though they’re totally unnecessary and usually end up detracting from the simple chickeny joy.

Any old chutney will do. Usually I buy a standard mango chutney, but this time I used a pear ginger chutney that a friend gave me. The ginger was STRONG—I worried that it would overpower the other ingredients, but it didn’t. Bottom line? It really is true that any chutney will do.

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
½ cup mayo
½ cup sour cream
1/4 cup chutney
1/4 teaspoon pepper
½ teaspoon salt
4 cups cubed chicken
2 cups red grape halves
½ cup toasted almonds

Combine the first six ingredients (down through the salt). Add the chicken and grapes and toss to coat. Add the almonds last minute (or let people do it themselves) as they lose their lovely crunch if allowed to mingle with the sauce for any length of time.

Yield: about 6 main dish servings or 12 little side servings (though no one ever takes just a little serving of this salad)

This same time, years previous: Chinese cabbage and apple salad, why I homeschool

Every fall when I go to buy apples I find myself in a quandary because I can not, for the life of me, remember which apples are best for what. The list that follows is intended to fix that problem. Maybe you will find it helpful, too?

Lodi

Early summer, tart, makes fabulous applesauce that takes a bunch of sugar to turn sweet (which I don’t do because we like tart). To get the full “fresh apple” taste, freeze this sauce.

Summer Rambo

My second favorite apple for sauce—it yields well, perhaps because the apples are dry, requiring more water during the cooking process.

Ginger Gold

Good for sauce, but so sweet and mild that it needs sugar just to bring out the flavor.

Super Gold
Good for sauce, but flavor is quite mild, almost watery. Best mixed with other apples.

Gala
Good for eating out of hand. Also very good in crisps and pies.

Golden Delicious

Excellent for drying and fresh eating. Also good for sauce.

Lowry
Good for fresh eating. Crisp and juicy, though not the most flavorful.

Jonathan

Great for baking, but not good for long-term storage as they tend to get little (non-wormy) spots all over them. Okay flavor, but mushy texture.

Stayman

Excellent for long-term storage and fresh eating (they’re quite tart) but too dry and mushy for baking. Do not, under any circumstances, use these for drying as they will draw your mouth most wretchedly. More notes: the peels are way too tough. Used these for applesauce, mixed with super gold and golden delicious, and that worked fine.

York

Great for baking, drying, fresh eating, and long-term storage.

Empire

Good for baking, drying, and fresh eating. They are a little on the soft side (more tender than mushy), and they are small. Also, juicy with a snap of tart. We serve them at the donut party.

Fuji

Our absolute favoritest eating apple—crisp, tart, and juicy. It also dries well.

Honeycrisp
Large, crispy, and sweet. But almost too sweet. They taste almost like the bruise of an apple.

What are YOUR favorite apples for long-term storage, baking, sauce, and drying?

(For a huge list of all recipes apple, check out the Hazel Bloom’s Applepalooza Wrap Up post.)

This same time, years previous: horseback riding and my year of homeschool torture

One of the (late-coming) presents we got for Yo-Yo’s birthday was a book called The Dangerous Book For Boys, by Con Iggulden and Hal Iggulden.

He also got walkie-talkies, the Big Shebang Gift, the gift that inspired the jumping up and down happy dance and spontaneous bear hugs. But after a couple days of walking and talking, interest in the battery-powered objects faded a bit and the new book started getting more face time.

The book has rapidly become a prized possession. There’s crafty fun (the kids have made water bombs out of paper and the world’s best paper airplane, and it really is good), directions for games, and tons of useful facts and information, including first aid of which Yo-Yo has already tried out on himself after ripping off a scab on his foot while he was in the shower. (Unfortunately all the blood didn’t stay in the shower.)

“You know how I stopped the blood? he asked. “I pressed down on my leg right above the wound to cut off the flow and it stopped real fast. I learned that in my book, and it worked!”

So now, thanks to this book, when my kids interrupt me on the phone, instead of my standard screening question of Is anyone bleeding or dying? I’ll be able to say, If you’re bleeding, take care of it. If you’re dying, let me know.

The kids got (fresh) inspiration for a treehouse from the book.

For two days now, they’ve been loading up the wagon with old wood, nails, and hammers, and tromping down through the field to the construction site. It entertains them for hours.

It’s fun to watch Yo-Yo. He gets fully engrossed in his work.

He whistles when he’s happy, and while building, he whistles constantly. He only leaves off the pucker flute to pause, take stock of what he’s doing, and make disgusted statements such as, “That board is seven inches off!”

And then the whistling resumes.

It cracks me up, this focus that washes over him when he’s in possession of a hammer and some nails. He’s totally his papa’s son.

(Though Mr. Handsome is not a whistler and I’m sure he’d like me to inform you that he is never ever off seven inches of anything. Ever.)

This same time, years previous: chicken and white bean chili and peanut butter cream pie