This is one of those “how to feed a family on not much of anything” potato soup recipes, so adjust ingredients or measurements to what you have on hand and season as you please.
Ingredients:
6 to 8 med. Russet potatoes, peeled and sliced into a heavy saucepan.
Just enough cold water to almost cover the potatoes
1/2 stick butter (put 3 T. in pan with potatoes and 1 T. into a small skillet)
1 sm. can chicken (drain juice into pan of potatoes, reserve meat for later)
1 env. Goya chicken or a bouillon cube
1/4 c. chopped onion
1/2 c. corn, drained
1/4 c. crumbled cooked bacon, optional
1 T. dried minced chives
Salt & Pepper to taste
1/2 c. sour cream
1/4 c. milk or evaporated milk, if needed
Cheddar cheese, for garnish
Bring potatoes, water, 3 T. butter, and juice from canned chicken to boil over medium heat. Add chicken broth seasoning.
Meanwhile, saute onion in butter until they start to soften; add corn and bacon bits. Continue to saute until onion is tender.
Add onion mixture to pot of potatoes. Cook until potatoes break easily when stirred or poked with a fork. Reduce heat to low. Add reserved chicken, chives, and sour cream. Think with milk, if desired. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Gently heat through and serve topped with grated cheddar cheese.
VARIATIONS: replace canned chicken with a can of minced clams, add mushrooms. Use chunks of ham or sliced kielbasa instead of chicken, omit bacon. Omit meats and chicken seasoning for just potato soup, toss in leftover veggies, etc.
Is it good? Ask my grandsons. They went from “ewe, I don’t want to eat that” to “umm, this is good” real quick.
My apologies for the lack of step-by-step photos. This isn’t a cooking blog. I just post recipes now and then as someday, those boys might get nostalgic for grandma’s cooking and find this online after I’m long gone. Thanks for reading!
It was 1997 maybe 96, I’m not sure which. The past is divided by location more than time. We were in the upstairs apartment on Parkman, no pets allowed, when a sister and her husband came over for lunch. They raved about my cooking, helped theirselves to more. That was the last time that she ever walked through my door.
Two moves and a cat later, I made a beef spread using my great-grandmother’s recipe, macaroni salad with baby shrimps, and dilly eggs for a family picnic in a park.
Yes, we used to have family gatherings. I have four sisters, each with families of their own. The oldest lived out of state then, but the others were there. I forget the occasion. The weather was mild, easy to maintain chilled temperatures for food safety, so it might have been in late Spring.
Potluck-style family gatherings were occasions when I could tap my culinary experience to create foods that looked as good as they taste. Dilly eggs are just a variation of deviled eggs, with a little yellow mustard and dill added for flavor. I always add extra yolks, use a star tip to pipe the filling into the whites, and garnish for a beautiful presentation. My other dishes were also garnished.
The first clue that sometimes was up was the stern look a sister gave her husband just as he was about to help himself to some of the macaroni salad. After a moment of silence, he lowered the serving spoon back into the bowl. Okay, maybe he’s allergic to shellfish. Then I saw another sister shake her head “no” when a child reached for an egg.
That’s when I started to pay attention. Eighteen people in attendance and the ONLY person who would eat anything that I made was my dad. He went out of his way to praise my dishes and talked about how much the beef spread brought back memories of his grandmother. It was obvious that some of the guys wanted to try it, but no one did. It was the first time ever that I came home from a family function with full containers.
My sisters, being how they are, were not satisfied with by my reaction. Or should I say, lack of reaction?
Pretending to be oblivious must have zapped the joy out of their orchestrated attempt to hurt my feelings. That’s the only way to win at messed up sister games – don’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
Of course, their next move was to have someone call to tell me that my sisters told everyone not to eat my food because it’s laced with cat hair and cigarette ashes.
Talk about overactive imaginations! That’s just cartoon stupid. It’s a wonder they didn’t throw in snot for good measure.
Picture this… cartoon chef in a cartoon kitchen stirring at the stove with a cartoon cigarette dangling out of his mouth, ashes falling into the pot, with cartoon cats up on counters slicing cartoon veggies with their very sharp claws… yes, I laughed.
I assured the caller that I don’t smoke while cooking and cats are not allowed on kitchen counters. Ironically, the sister who has not been in my home since before I got a cat was blamed for starting the rumor.
I hope she reported back that I laughed and said the whole thing was so stupid, it’s comical. What I didn’t tell her was that I had already vowed to never cook for those people again.
I kept that vow for over 20 years, showing up at family gatherings with obviously purchased foods in sealed packaging and always with a joke, like pull out a package of Oreos and say, “I baked cookies.”
And that’s how I earned the reputation of “Nancy doesn’t cook, she has to dust her stove.”
I do cook. If I had some dill, I’d make some dilly eggs just to snap a photo. As an alternative, here’s a photo that I snapped to show my cousin when he asked what I was making for lunch.
It’s just little bits of leftovers, sliced steak and chili beans, on street taco tortillas with toppings… drats! Forgot to add cat hairs and ashes, lol.
I gave myself permission to break traditions. I don’t have to do everything. Or anything.
People kind of freak out about that. What? No tree? Am I okay? Is something wrong? Sad face, hugs and care emoticons. Sheez. Can’t imagine being ME?
Okay, I will admit that slapping a wreath upon the door without decorating the interior of your home is ye equivalent to hiding depression behind a smile, but can we normalize being “alone” on holidays?
I’m tired of pretending life is a Hallmark movie fantasy, of silently letting others assume that I might have plans, that God forbid I wake up “alone” on Christmas morn just the same as I do on the 364 other days of the year.
Side note: “alone” is in quotation marks because the word is defined differently by those who thrive in solitude than those who find being alone with their own self for any length of time to be unbearable misery.
Permission extends to all aspects of holiday prep. Do I need to bake cookies in all those varieties? No… one batch with grandchildren, sent home with the boys. That’s enough. I made Chex Mix with only my favorite ingredients, heavy on the peanuts.
My sweet treat for company this year will be a special pie baked in a rectangular dish, which I’ve yet to bake as I don’t know when my daughter plans to stop by, might not be until Boxing Day. She’s got her own traditions started… making memories with her children. They snuggle in for a family movie night on Christmas Eve. I suggested getting together on the 26th as their 25th is already a full day, better to enjoy a relaxed visit than a pop in and out, on to the next.
That’s part of it, letting go of old ways to make way for the new, the next generation takes the stage, does things their own way. It is a letting go of preconceived notions, of letting things just be, and being open to my own next. This is the space in-between.
Thanks for reading!
BTW, I decorated in Fishdom. It’s the only game I play, much to my grandson’s amazement. Grandma’s on level… what?
Barnbees 