Grammy's Italian Baked Chicken

Trips to Maine always proceeded the same. After the first six or seven hours, we’d cross into our favorite state, over the Piscataqua Bridge, and shout in unison “Welcome to Maine, The Way Life Should Be!” Then we’d snuggle back down into our pillows and leave the driving to my father since it would be another two hours before we’d get to my grandparents. Next thing we knew, we’d be turning down their sandy, pine-lined road, rubbing sleepy eyes and sporting sleep-tousled hair-dos. We’d excitedly point to the first landmark, my Uncle Scott’s home, craning our necks to see if the cousins were in the yard. A few more turns around the bend and Uncle Gordon and Aunt Ruthie’s home appeared on the left, a square brick structure with a red tin roof, numerous barns in the background and a large bell out front. But we had eyes only for the right-hand side, where we caught brief glimpses of a path to a large rock, and then a tall barn and then a small, dormered colonial with a black-shingled roof. The white house and bright red barn would flash through the sparse forest of white pine until the trees cleared and we were suddenly there. Turning into the driveway created a state of happy havoc in the car, my sister and I bouncing up and down in our seats, ready to pile out and breathe in the scent of Maine.

We’d pull up to the garage, connected to the house by the breezeway, where all eyes would turn to see my Grammy standing there with the door ajar, her face alight with affection for her family.

Even as an adult, it’s still been the same. The long journey worth it just to see them and slip into my Grammy’s waiting arms while my Grandpa stands tall and waiting in the background, a large grin widening across his face. Worth it just to hug them, my Grammy’s embrace slightly below and my Grandpa’s very much above my own. And food, always food. If morning, then blueberry muffins, somehow always ready just exactly at the right time, with scrambled eggs and curly bacon. If evening, then simple corn chowder with homemade bread ready to toast and homemade jam ready to spread. A feast fit for the richest of kings.

See, time stands still at my grandparents. Always the garden heavy with produce out the back kitchen window. Always a pile of freshly washed cukes on the breezeway. Always at least two pies perched atop the washing machine on the porch. Always a box of Frosty’s doughnuts on the vinyl cloth-lined table which hugs the golden-yellow patterned wall. The wall upon which has always hungs a clock six inches from the ceiling and a calendar of farm scenes. And always my Grandpa. And always my Grammy.

Until March 1^st, when my Grammy left her earthly home and body of almost 95 years and stepped into Glory.

And then time leaped forward with a sickening lurch to that day I always knew would come but hoped never would, the day we’d come home to Maine and Grammy wouldn’t be waiting at the door.

We crossed the threshold into waiting arms with faces above them lined with grief, and eyes filled with tears. It was still noisy with life, yet somehow somber and wistful. We were all there, bodies crowded into the living room, my Grandpa in his chair with Aunts and Uncles on couches and chairs and cousins seated casually on the floor. Everyone there except for one.

And as we gathered around the tables to food that Grammy used to cook, it hit me that she was really and truly gone. The last meal she had ever made for me, Italian Baked Chicken was, incidentally, the one my aunts chose to cook for the family as we gathered to celebrate her. And I just missed her. And my heart ached.

I’m so grateful to know that I will see her again someday. She was a beautiful woman who loved her family deeply and sacrificed for them gladly. But that’s not what gives me hope. What gives me hope is that her faith was placed firmly in the One who died to rescue her. And someday, I will step into Glory too. And I’m pretty sure that right after Jesus, Grammy will be standing just inside the gate, holding the door ajar, to welcome me Home.

Italian Baked Chicken

Serves 4 - 6 

Total Time: 1 1/2 - 2 hours

4 - 6 skinless, boneless chicken breasts

1/2 cup sour cream

1 egg, beaten

2/3 cup Italian style bread crumbs

1/3 cup grated Parmesan

In a small bowl, mix together egg and sour cream.

In a medium sized bowl, mix together bread crumbs and Parmesan.

Dip each chicken breast in the sour cream mixture and then roll in the bread crumb mixture.

Place chicken in a greased pan, tucking the ends of the chicken underneath itself. 

Bake at 350 degrees until chicken registers 165 degrees on an instant-read thermometer, 

or until chicken is no longer pink inside. 

Depending on the size of the chicken breasts this can take 1 to 1 1/2 hours. 

Serve immediately.

Recipe from my Grammy.

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