Back in the late 60s, early 70s, Britain rediscovered the casserole and cook-in sauces at just about the same time and the dinner party was reborn. Specifically, I remember the faintly winey and metallic-tasting Home Pride Chicken Chasseur sauce. It tasted splendid at the time and we all thought we’d rediscovered good food at last.
So, back to the present, last time we were fooling around shopping, looking for things to do with a big tray of chicken breasts, we picked up a can of the good old Home Pride.
“I wonder if it’ll taste like it used to?” Graham asked.
“Oh, it’ll be exactly like it was. My only misgivings are that our taste buds may have changed and our palette become more refined.”
“Nah. Food is food. And it’s cheap. Grab one and we’ll see if we can rekindle the smokey candles and cheap wine of yesteryear.”
“That’s almost poetic.”
“Oh. Sorry. Not to worry. Let’s just get home before the roads flood again.”
Well, the roads didn’t flood, not here they didn’t. Some bright spark in the local council’s employ must have cleared a crucial drain, because the roads were good and dry even though it was raining hard.
So, anyway, last night I plopped two extra large chicken breasts in a casserole dish, and opened the can of Home Pride. I sniffed it. It smelled just the way I remembered. I stuck the tip of a small finger in it and tasted. Yup. That’s Home Pride, all right.
“I think I shall have to zhoosh this up a bit,” I said.
“Don’t go getting too creative.”
“If you say so.”
I added some chopped onion and a couple of handfuls of sliced mushrooms to the casserole and poured the sauce over. It glooped rather miserably at me so, looking over my shoulder to check I wasn’t being watched, I dosed the whole thing with dried Provençal herbs and a healthy sprinkling of chopped garlic and give it a gentle stir. Consigned the whole to the oven, and went on to prepare potatoes and broccoli.
An hour and a half later and the kitchen was filled with the well-remembered smell of Home Pride; not quite sickly, but it might have been if I’d not been well engaged with my second glass of wine.
Vegetables on to cook, plates in to warm and, before I’d finished my wine, I was plating up our 1970′s retro chicken casserole.
“Ready!” I called. “Come and get it before the paint peels off the ceiling.”
Well, we did eat it up, though I did have to help Graham finish his potatoes.
“I think we’ll give this another thirty years before we try it again,” I said.
“Good. Thirty years sounds about right. Anything less and I might have to kill you.”
“Another of these Home Pride casseroles and I’ll probably die of my own accord.”
9 responses so far ↓
~ Sil in Corea // November 18, 2009 at 1:44 pm
Funny how an old standby is sometimes just not good enough to keep standing by.
You know a lot more about fiddling with a recipe nowadays, too.
Shirley, in PA // November 18, 2009 at 3:06 pm
It’s a good thing you added herbs and onions and garlic – imagine how it would have been without them.
Mage Bailey // November 18, 2009 at 3:51 pm
I hope you only bought one can of the stuff.
Trevor H. // November 18, 2009 at 5:40 pm
Reading etween the lines… an Atkins breakfast … but you helped Graham finish those spuds, John. Naughty naughty. You see, I can reprove you, cos I know a bit of guilt always helps an Englishman enjoy a thing a lot more. As we age and other pleasures recede, the one thing that doesn’t, luverly FOOD, becomes the one thing we are told to have less of. THINKS: The whole diet thing is thus a mere self-deceiving ploy to increase guilty pleasure, isn’ it?
Josephine // November 18, 2009 at 7:57 pm
Hmmm I don’t think I ever had the pleasure…or not.
I remember HomePride flour and the little flour grader men, and still have one or two.
We seem to be living on chicken breasts lately, Alfredo, Herb Roasted, Garlic, before much longer, we’ll be cluckin’.
Trevor H. // November 19, 2009 at 1:54 am
I saw chickens beheaded, as a boy in Cyprus in 1957, but gruesome as their end was, I have to admit, they tasted much better than the immature broiler chicks the world eats now. Whatever happened to chicken? And chicken breast, which I think of as tofu with feathers! I guess its very tastelessness begs for a similarly mass produced sauce to disguise its blandness. And thus clever old Homepride made a fortune!
wayne // November 19, 2009 at 4:00 am
The taste of the breasts of real chickens would probably kill half the gentrified western world today. I remember when you actually had to chew chicken before swallowing. Trevor, I am going to steal your tofu phrase. Exactly on point.
Bex // November 20, 2009 at 3:36 am
Don’t know if you get Campbell soups over there, John, but if you can find it, Campbells Cream of Chicken with Herbs makes the most wonderful casserole EVER. Whenever I find it on the shelves, I load up with more than I can use in a month because it seems to last forever on the shelf and it’s so versatile. And Mmm, Mmmm, Good.
novie // November 21, 2009 at 8:37 am
Ah, good old Campbell’s soups. One can of cream of mushroom, a packet of dry onion soup mix, and a couple of cups of water–a great baste that becomes lovely gravy.
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