Pineapple-Apple Chicken

I love this recipe. It sounds more labor intensive than it is. If you brine the day before, it takes about an hour from start to serving. Chopping the apples takes about 10 minutes. Waiting for the sugar to dissolve, the apples to soften, and the pineapple to heat takes 15-20 minutes. 

INGREDIENTS, except for brine (see below)

Chicken tenderloins, brined, enough for one layer in a 9 x 13 baking dish, approximately 6-8 pieces.

1 16-ounce can pineapple chunks

½ cup water

¼ cup brown sugar

3 Tablespoons ground ginger

1 teaspoon nutmeg

2 Tablespoons cinnamon

3 small apples, cubed

1 cup unsweetened coconut flakes

1 Tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
Grated cheddar cheese

Brine

¼ cup salt

1 Tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

¼ cup brown sugar

1 teaspoon ground ginger

1 clove garlic, chopped

1 cup water

Brine prep: Mix ingredients in small saucepan over low heat. Stir until salt is dissolved. Cool to room temperature. Pour into storage container (I use a one-gallon ziplock bag). Add chicken. CHICKEN MUST BE COVERED COMPLETELY. Brine for at least four hours. Overnight is preferred.

MAIN PREPARATION

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Grease a 9 x 13 baking dish. Set aside.

Drain pineapple, reserving the juice. Set aside. Combine juice, water, sugar, ginger, nutmeg, and cinnamon into large saucepan (at least 4-quart). Simmer over low-to-medium heat, stirring constantly, until sugar is dissolved. Add apples. Simmer until apples are soft, stirring occasionally.

While mixture is stewing, remove chicken from brine and pat dry. Layer the tenderloins in the bottom of the baking dish.

Once apples are soft, add coconut and pineapple. Simmer until thoroughly heated. Pour over chicken, spreading the apples and pineapple evenly over the chicken. Bake 20 minutes. Sprinkle cheddar cheese to taste over the dish. Bake additional 10 minutes.

Serves approximately 3-4 people, 2-3 tenderloins per person.

I serve the chicken and fruit over organic brown rice with almonds, with a side dish of green beans or zucchini. 

"He'd Still Been God"

First, let me thank everyone who commented on my last post. Y'all are awesome. And I share your grief and hope. Your words meant the world to me, even if I couldn't respond at the time. Grief remains unpredictable and cruel...so naturally, I want to talk about music.

I've been involved in music, in some form or fashion, since I was six years old. Piano lessons came first, then band (I played the flute/piccolo) and choir. I joined my first church choir when I was fifteen; chorus at school followed. Although I walked away from music as a livelihood, creating music has always been a part of my life.

So it came as no surprise to those who knew me that I would test all those "what children are born knowing" theories with music. When I became pregnant, I inundated my belly with songs. And Rachel was, in fact, born knowing some of the songs. (How I know is a topic for another blog...but she did.)

Rachel was my musical miracle. It was a major part of her life as well: it calmed her when she was upset and soothed her when she was sick. She became excited and thrilled when she heard me sing - so much so that I dared not have her in the sanctuary when I sang a solo. She'd squeal so loud with pure joy that I'd lose focus and start giggling.

Needless to say, I had a hard time with music in the first few weeks after her death. I still have trouble with some songs...and will for a long time. But Rachel wasn't the only one who was helped by music. Music has always been my solace as well.

A few months ago, I came across this article about the value of the classic hymns of our faith. I've always loved the hymns, especially in some of the newer arrangements. And the words will move me like few choruses will. But I never overlook the theology in "modern hymns" either...or their ability to bring solace.

I'm a fan of a Southern gospel group called Greater Vision. (I also like the Killers, Coldplay, Howard Ashman, Dwight Yokam, and Glenn Miller...again...story for another day). The songs GV chooses to record can often make me absolutely shout with faith and joy. One of their songs, "He'd Still Been God," has, in particular, helped me during this time. The "theology" behind the lyrics is that Jesus would have been God, no matter what he did. While he performed miracles, he didn't have to. He would have still been God, come to offer us salvation, miracles or no.

Jesus healed people out of his compassion and mercy.

He stills does. That God led me to a place where I would create music for my unborn child, with the result that music would aid her like nothing else would, is to me nothing short of a miracle. One born of mercy and compassion that would make her life and mine much easier. 

But if I worship and love him, and I do, it's not because of the miracles in my life. It's because he was and is God.

And there is infinite solace in that as well.

When an Introvert Grieves: I Am an Actor

The show was A Few Good Men. I was a company member, hanging out with the actors backstage during the show, when I saw a transformation that will remain in my mind for the rest of my life.

He played a young lieutenant, harsh and by-the-book. The actor was anything but. We were kidding about, laughing, when he heard his cue. He excused himself, stepped up to the entrance, bowed his head and took a deep breath. In the next five seconds, he physically, mentally, and emotionally turned into the lieutenant. He looked different, and when he stepped out onstage, he sounded different.

He transformed.

This is me, in the weeks following Rachel’s death. Every time I step out of the house, I am “onstage.” I straighten myself, mentally and emotionally, and I compartmentalize the grief. When someone asks, I respond, “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

This isn’t an attempt to deceive, or even to keep everyone at bay, which is my initial instinct. It’s self-preservation—and it’s the truth. At that moment, I’m fine. And I don’t want to talk about it.

As a friend of mine warned, grief is a “wily beast,” gripping and occasionally unexpected. The grief remains raw and real, and triggers appear to be everywhere. Sometimes it takes a major effort not to collapse into tears. Which is what happened to me Easter Sunday at church. The kids had a program, and when they started to sing, I lost it. I left, composed myself, and held it together long enough to get through the anthem (I sing in the choir). After that, I bolted.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m an introvert…or just odd. But I do not want to talk about my grief, especially in public. I KNOW people care, and I don’t mind if they express it.

Because the truth is…I don’t want to talk about. And I do NOT want to show it. This doesn’t mean I’m not feeling it; it just means I’d rather do my grieving in private, or with a close friend or two. But I did want to say a few things here, so that those who care might understand how I feel.

1)   I lost a child. So did Phyllis, who was, in all the important ways, a second mother. Not a handicapped child, or a child who was expected to die. A child, and the feelings are as raw as if she’d been “normal.” She will always be gone, and there is a PERMANENT hole in my life. It will get easier to live with, but it will always be there.

2)   Just because she was handicapped did not make her death “easier.” Yes, I’ve lived for almost 30 years with the idea that I would outlive her, but after all this time, we got complacent. It MIGHT have been easier had she died sooner, or after a long illness (such as she had two years ago), but I don’t know that for certain.

3)   Because of this, her death was UNEXPECTED. She was well Monday. Baseline. Life as normal. Tuesday she started acting uncomfortable, but no more than if she’d been constipated or had an upset tummy. Wednesday, she was worse, but we still thought she might have a UTI, but little more. By Thursday morning, we’d removed life support. THIS WAS SUDDEN!

4)   Yes, I believe she’s with Jesus. Probably dancing with my mother. This does NOT make grief easier. We’re all still adjusting to the changes in our lives. That takes time.

5)   Words often meant to help actually hurt. We know people want to help. We understand. But you don’t have to, and saying anything that hurts only makes the grief—and our “guilt” that we are not “over it”—worse. The BEST thing anyone can say is “I’m sorry for your loss. If you need to talk, I’m here.” Anything more is just risky for us.

6)   We need to hibernate. That’s OK. Don’t feel as if we need to “come out of our shell.” No. We don’t. We need to hibernate and heal in our own ways in our own time. We are intelligent adults. If we need help, we know how to ask.

As I write this, we’re approaching the two-month anniversary of her death. I still have periods in which I’m non-functional; Phyllis still has days. We are both better. We are both trying to get back to day-to-day living. I, for one, am going to be broke shortly if I don’t. Our “regular” lives must go on.

And the best thing anyone can do for us at this point is to do exactly that. Treat us as you would every day, even if you know that I’m “acting.” Simply leave a space open for us if we suddenly burst into tears. Don’t try to “say the right things.” It’s OK to be silent and wait.

To be honest, there are no words that will help, no actions. It’s all about us working through what we have to, and in the time it takes. Whatever time that is. Until we're fine, for real.