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.”
