I Grew Up Around the Table [and a recipe for Mom’s Pineapple Chicken]
By Sarah Hauser
@sarah.j.hauser
I stand in front of the stove and lift the lid on a pot of rice, checking if it’s done. My daughter plays “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on the piano for the thousandth time. She’s been begging me to teach her how to play the piano, but it’s been years since I’ve played consistently. Plus, she and I are the most impatient members of our family, which means my teaching plus her learning can be combustible. So for now, follow-along YouTube lessons will have to do.
Earlier today, I complimented her on how much she’s improved and how hard she’s been working. Then I asked her ever-so-gently to learn a new song. Mary and her lamb need to take a vacation.
She plinks away for a few more minutes, then as I turn the heat off under the pot of rice, I hear a few new notes. Oh no. Oh no! Is that “Baby Shark”? I pause mid-stir to listen, and I have to give her credit—she did learn a new song. But we’ve got to get this girl some proper lessons.
My oldest son wanders around the kitchen, periodically opening the fridge and scanning its contents for a snack, even though we’ll be eating in less than 15 minutes. As of this week, the baby has found the Tupperware cabinet, and in between my stirring and taste-testing, I gingerly step over numerous plastic lids dotting our floor like landmines. I don’t pick them up. They’re the only thing that keeps him from crawling to the stairs or the dog food or the fireplace or whatever other dangers grace our home.
My middle son builds a fort out of cardboard in the family room. He keeps asking me for help, but the rice isn’t done yet, the chicken needs more seasoning, and it’s almost time for everyone to come help set the table anyway. I promise I’ll help him after dinner, and I make myself a mental note: make sure you keep that promise. The baby starts to fuss, and I’m at the point in my cooking where I have to be fully hands-on, so I put him in the high chair. He hates being confined, but a handful of puffs on his tray seem to make the transition easier.
“Baby Shark” continues in the background. Someone complains about how hungry they are. Someone else asks what’s for dinner. Then five seconds later another kid says, “Wait, what’s for dinner again?”
The baby starts to cry. The dog sits at the window and enthusiastically barks at much more well-behaved dogs and their owners walking along the sidewalk. “Baby Shark” finally stopped. Oh wait. I take a deep breath. There’s Mary and her freaking lamb again.
***
“Vær så god!”
I hear my mom call to us from the kitchen. We don’t actually speak Norwegian, but there are a few phrases we learned from my grandmother that we’ve filed away in our minds. After a couple generations, though, our pronunciation is so bad that no one from Norway would ever be able to understand us.
Despite our mispronunciation, this phrase was one we heard every day. It’s an idiom meaning (at least this is the meaning I’ve been told) something to the effect of “Here you go/you are welcome to [whatever I just brought or made].” In our house, it was like a dinner bell, a phrase calling us to wash hands, sit down, and savor whatever was on that menu for the night.
I run down the stairs, my brother shoving past me, racing for the same bathroom sink even though there are at least three other sinks nearby. We grab whatever else needs to get set on the table––a bowl of green beans, napkins, a few more drinks––and snatch a bite of chicken with our fingers right from the serving bowl on the counter. My mom playfully swats our hands and snaps, “No snitching!”
If we linger too long in the kitchen instead of finding our seats, we’ll hear her yell, “Out of the work zone!” We have jobs to do around meal times, like setting the table or pouring drinks. But there’s no standing around in the work zone, no leisurely grazing or casual conversation. The work zone means you’re working. And if you’re not working, you’d best go find your seat.
***
My brother visited a few weeks ago. As I pulled the food off the grill and we set plates out, he reminded me how we used to bang our silverware on the table and chant, “We want food! We want food!” while my mom finished up cooking dinner.
I wish I could apologize to her for that now. We’d laugh and think our sing-song cheer had to have been so amusing. I’m sure my mother rolled her eyes and shook her head and found it less than entertaining. To work all day cooking and cleaning and running the household only to be loudly chanted at by hungry children? No thanks.
The next day, my kids scurried to their seats at the table. I finished filling glasses of water. Then my kids started that all too familiar chant. “We want food. We want food!” I can attest it’s far more annoying than amusing. Also, I’ll be plotting revenge against my brother for bestowing this memory on my kids who now insist on keeping it alive around our own table.
***
“Okay, wash hands and help set the table! Dinner!” I call. After a little cajoling, I finally hear the sink running and see plates being set around. My husband grabs silverware from the drawer and makes sure a certain kid actually washed his hands. My daughter has moved from piano to practicing ballet. She spins around in the kitchen, her every step a dance, and someone else opens the fridge again. “Can I have a treat?” my son asks. “No! We’re about to eat dinner! Out of the kitchen! Go back to setting the table!” It takes every ounce of self-control I have to avoid saying the phrase that keeps bubbling up in my throat, but the mere thought of repeating, “Out of the work zone!” in my own home makes me want to roll my eyes at myself.
Everything about the last thirty minutes of our lives has been chaotic and loud. I’ve lost my temper. The kids have complained. It all feels like so much work just to sit down for a meal. Sometimes making dinner and eating together seems like more trouble than it’s worth.
We do take breaks. We eat frozen pizza in front of the TV and stop by the Chick-Fil-A drive thru. But I grew up around the table. There’s something familiar, stable even, about cooking in the middle of the frenzy of kids whirling around me, like I’m searing and slicing in the eye of a storm. For me, the table holds a thousand memories. It whispers of the past and absorbs the present. Each scratch on its surface tells the tales of our banging silverware, each wobbly chair holds our favorite people, each crumb that falls leads us to new memories.
At least I know they’ll like this meal. It’s the same recipe my mom always made, the same meal, with its sweet smell of pineapple and drizzles of savory sauce, that lifts me out of my kitchen and into hers. Like my siblings and me growing up, my kids will eat this one without complaint (except for the one who doesn’t like cooked pineapple). They’ll ask for more rice and extra sauce.
I tell the kids to sit up straight and to stop eating until we pray. “Whose day is it?” my husband asks. “It’s Tuesday, my day to pray!” my son answers. Tuesday was always Mom’s day growing up. It’s strange what sticks in your memory.
Sitting here now, I wonder what my kids will remember. I wonder if they’ll make this same dish or if they’ll still have the recipe card with my mom’s handwriting. I fear they’ll remember my temper or believe the chaos just isn’t worth it. But I hope they’ll remember more than that. I hope they’ll remember being together, laughing, and telling stories. I hope they’ll remember the tastes and smells of our favorite meals. I hope they’ll remember how they, too, grew up around the table.
Tiny hands fold together and heads bow. One child tries to sneak bites of his dinner, but I glance over and give him the look. He quickly averts his eyes and clasps his hands. “Amen!” my oldest son says, and together, we dig in.
Mom’s Pineapple Chicken
Yields 4-6 servings
2 ½ - 3 pounds chicken breasts, cut into chunks
⅔ cup all-purpose flour*
1 teaspoon kosher salt
½ teaspoon celery salt
½ teaspoon nutmeg
¼ teaspoon garlic powder
¼ cup olive oil, divided (more if needed)
1 20-ounce can pineapple chunks (in 100% juice)
¼ cup reduced sodium soy sauce
2 tablespoons brown sugar
Mix the flour, kosher salt, celery salt, nutmeg, and garlic powder in a bowl or zip-top bag. Toss the chicken pieces with the flour and spice mixture until each piece is fully coated. (If you’re using a bag, make sure it’s fully sealed before you shake that chicken up! Ask me how I know.)
Heat about 1-2 tablespoons of the olive oil in a large saute pan set over medium-high heat. Remove the chicken from the flour mixture and add to the hot oil. Brown the chicken on all sides, a couple minutes on each side. Depending on the size of your pan, you may need to work in batches so you don’t overcrowd the pan (which hinders browning). During the browning process, add oil, a tablespoon at a time, as needed.
Remove the browned chicken to a plate or bowl. The chicken doesn’t have to be fully cooked through at this point.
While the chicken is browning, strain the pineapple juice from the canned pineapple into a small bowl. Stir in the soy sauce and brown sugar. Set aside.
When all the chicken has been browned, turn the heat to medium. Carefully pour in the pineapple juice/soy sauce mixture, scraping all the browned bits from the bottom of the pan. Add the chicken back in as well as the pineapple chunks. Stir everything together and cook for another few minutes until the sauce thickens a bit and the chicken is cooked through.
Serve over rice and with your favorite green vegetable.
Notes:
*Gluten-free all-purpose flour also works for this recipe.
**For a more paleo-fied version, replace the flour with ⅓ cup almond flour mixed with ⅓ cup arrowroot powder. Use coconut aminos instead of soy sauce, and replace the brown sugar with 2 teaspoons molasses (I use Grandma’s Molasses). Since coconut aminos don’t taste quite as salty as soy sauce, you may need to add a pinch or two of salt to this version.
***This dish freezes really well, so double or triple the recipe!
Words and photo by Sarah Hauser. Sarah is a writer and speaker living in the Chicago suburbs with her husband and four kids. Through theology, stories, and the occasional recipe, she helps others find nourishment for their soul. She loves cooking but rarely follows a recipe exactly, and you can almost always find her with a cup of coffee in hand. Check out her monthly newsletter or find her on Instagram .