Blueberry Chicken Chopped Salad

January. The month after the holiday sprint. The month where Nashville is gray and cold and the restaurant is quiet in the way that January is always quiet — the decorations are down, the special menus are gone, the customers come but they come slower, they order less, they sit at the counter and look out the window at the bare trees on Gallatin Pike and drink coffee and eat cornbread and the eating is: comfort against the gray. January is the month where I wonder — every year, briefly — if the restaurant will survive. The worry is irrational. The numbers say we're fine. Rita says we're fine. But January is gray and the gray gets in my head and the head is: worried. The worry is the January tax. Every business owner pays it.

But this week had a light. Jayden brought home a certificate from school: "Fifth Grade Creative Writing Award — Jayden Mitchell." A writing award. The boy who struggled to read in first grade, who sounded out words at the kitchen table while I pointed at letters with spaghetti-sauce-stained fingers, who wrote fire truck stories on loose-leaf paper and stapled them together and put them in the reading corner at the restaurant — that boy won a writing award. His teacher, Mrs. Patterson, wrote a note: "Jayden's story about a fire station was the most compelling piece of fiction I've read from a student in fifteen years of teaching. He writes with empathy and precision beyond his age."

Empathy and precision. Beyond his age. I read the note standing in the kitchen and the kitchen was quiet because the kids were in their rooms and the apartment was warm and the note was in my hands and my hands were shaking. Not from worry. From the thing that is bigger than pride — the thing that happens when your child becomes someone you didn't expect, when the struggle turns into a strength, when the boy who couldn't read becomes the boy who writes better than anyone his teacher has seen in fifteen years. Empathy and precision. Beyond his age. Jayden is ten and he writes about fire stations with empathy and precision and the writing is his and the empathy is mine (I gave him that, I gave him the ability to feel things deeply and to put the feeling into words, I gave him the kitchen table and the reading and the stories and the giving is the parenting and the parenting is: working).

I put the certificate on the fridge. Next to Chloe's honor roll certificate. Next to Elijah's orange finger painting. The fridge museum grows. The museum of Mitchell children exceeding expectations. The expectations were low — not because the children are limited but because the world expects less from kids who grow up the way mine did, the way I did, the way Lorraine did. The world sees single mom, working-class neighborhood, absent father, and the world lowers the bar. And my children step over the lowered bar like it's not there. Because it's not there. Not in this house. Not at this table. The bar in this house is: as high as the children can reach. And Jayden reaches: high.

We celebrated at the restaurant. Not a party — just a Wednesday dinner after close, just me and the three kids at the counter, Jayden on his stool with the firefighter sticker, eating chicken and dumplings (his celebration meal, always, the warm and filling meal that says "something good happened and this food is the acknowledgment"). Chloe said: "You deserve it." Elijah said: "I can write too!" (He can write: his name, the letter E followed by a line, and the word "orange"). Jayden was quiet. The quiet of a boy who has been told he's good at something and is trying to believe it. I know that quiet. I had that quiet when Denise left the $50 tip. The quiet before the believing. The believing is coming. It always comes. You just have to feed it until it arrives.

Chicken and dumplings. The celebration meal. The constant. Made in the restaurant kitchen, served at the counter, eaten by a ten-year-old who writes with empathy and precision and who ate his dumplings with the satisfaction of a person who has done something good and has been fed well and both of those things matter equally.

The chicken and dumplings that night were made from instinct — the restaurant recipe, warm and heavy and exactly right for a January Wednesday after close. But when I make chicken at home on the days after, when the gray has lifted a little and I want something that feels less like shelter and more like brightness, I make this. The blueberries are Jayden’s favorite thing in a salad — he calls them “the sweet parts” — and a salad with sweet parts feels like the right thing to eat when your child has just become someone extraordinary, when the believing is still fresh and you want the meal to match it.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 15 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (about 1 lb total)
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
Salt and black pepper to taste
6 cups chopped romaine lettuce
1 cup fresh blueberries
1/2 cup English cucumber, diced
1/3 cup red onion, thinly sliced
1/3 cup crumbled feta cheese
1/4 cup toasted pecans, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons fresh basil, torn
Blueberry Balsamic Vinaigrette:
3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
2 tablespoons fresh blueberries, mashed
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Instructions

Season and cook the chicken. Pat chicken breasts dry and rub with olive oil, garlic powder, smoked paprika, salt, and pepper. Heat a skillet or grill pan over medium-high heat and cook chicken 6–7 minutes per side, until cooked through and internal temperature reaches 165°F. Transfer to a cutting board and let rest 5 minutes.
Make the vinaigrette. In a small bowl, mash 2 tablespoons of blueberries with a fork until broken down. Whisk in balsamic vinegar, honey, and Dijon mustard. Slowly drizzle in olive oil while whisking until emulsified. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Set aside.
Chop and slice the chicken. Once rested, slice or dice the chicken into bite-sized pieces.
Assemble the salad. In a large bowl, combine the chopped romaine, blueberries, cucumber, red onion, feta, and toasted pecans. Add the sliced chicken on top.
Dress and finish. Drizzle the blueberry balsamic vinaigrette over the salad and toss gently to coat. Scatter fresh basil over the top and serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Blueberry Chicken Chopped Salad — The Meal That Follows the Believing