Buffalo Chicken Dip

April arrived with rain — three solid days of it, the kind of Memphis spring rain that turns the world green overnight and turns my mail route into an obstacle course of puddles and soggy sidewalks and Senator the poodle, who apparently believes that rain increases the threat level of postal workers, because he barked at me through the window with a fury that suggested I was personally responsible for the weather.

The route restructuring is still hanging over me. My supervisor hasn't mentioned it since February, but the silence isn't reassuring — it's the kind of silence that precedes a decision, the way the silence before a storm isn't peaceful, it's loaded. I walk the route every day with the awareness that each house, each mailbox, each turn could be one of the last times I see it as mine, and that awareness has turned ordinary moments into something more: the way Mrs. Henderson's roses are starting to bud on Felix, the way the old man on Barksdale still collects his own mail at ninety-one, the way the light hits Cooper Street at 8 AM in April. These things were always beautiful. Now they're precious. There's a difference.

Marcus called Tuesday night to ask my advice. He wants to propose to Angela. He's been thinking about it since September, and now he's moving from thinking to planning, which is the most terrifying transition a man can make because planning means commitment and commitment means risk and risk means the possibility of hearing "no," which Marcus is not equipped to handle because Johnsons don't hear "no" well. We hear "no" the way we hear the smoke detector — as a personal attack that we are determined to override.

I told him what I know about proposing, which is limited to one data point: my own proposal to Rosetta in 1984, which I delivered while sitting in a Buick Regal in the parking lot of the Peabody Hotel, because I had planned to propose at dinner inside the Peabody and then realized I couldn't afford dinner at the Peabody and panicked and did it in the car instead. Rosetta said yes. She also said, "Earl, this is a parking lot." I said, "It's the Peabody parking lot." She said, "A parking lot is a parking lot." I said, "But you said yes." She said, "Yes, I said yes. Now take me to Waffle House." And that was our engagement dinner: waffles and hash browns at the Waffle House on Union Avenue, the most romantic meal of my life, because the meal doesn't make the moment — the people make the moment, and the meal is just the backdrop.

I told Marcus this story and he laughed and said, "Dad, I'm not proposing in a parking lot." I said, "Son, it doesn't matter where you do it. It matters that you mean it." He said, "I mean it." I said, "Then she'll say yes." I didn't say this with certainty because I am wise. I said it because I have watched Angela Foster look at my son for the past year, and the way she looks at him is the way Rosetta looked at me in that Buick Regal, which is with love and exasperation and the absolute knowledge that this man is flawed and this man is hers.

Saturday I made pulled pork nachos — a dish that Uncle Clyde would consider a blasphemy and that I consider an evolution, because BBQ that doesn't evolve is BBQ that dies, and I would rather commit creative heresy than serve a tradition that has stopped growing. Leftover pulled pork, layered on tortilla chips with shredded cheese, pickled jalapenos, a drizzle of my BBQ sauce, sour cream, and cilantro. Pop the whole thing under the broiler until the cheese melts and the chips start to brown, and you have something that is both Memphis and Tex-Mex and entirely mine. Rosetta ate them without complaint. Progress.

The pulled pork nachos scratched the itch that Saturday, but the truth is the itch never fully goes away — that craving for something layered and melty and meant to be eaten off a chip, preferably while standing over the pan before you’ve even set the table. Buffalo Chicken Dip is the same spirit in a different vessel: bold, unapologetic, the kind of thing Uncle Clyde would also object to, and the kind of thing Rosetta would eat without complaint, which around here is the highest possible endorsement. If you’ve got pulled pork on hand, stir some in — Marcus did exactly that the last time he was over, and honestly it held up.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 25 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

2 cups cooked chicken, shredded (rotisserie works great)
8 oz cream cheese, softened
1/2 cup buffalo hot sauce (Frank’s RedHot recommended)
1/2 cup ranch dressing
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese, divided
1/2 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
2 stalks celery, finely diced (optional, for garnish)
2 green onions, sliced (for garnish)
Tortilla chips, crackers, or sliced baguette, for serving

Instructions

Preheat. Heat your oven to 375°F. Lightly grease a 9-inch baking dish or cast iron skillet.
Mix the base. In a large bowl, beat the softened cream cheese until smooth. Stir in the buffalo sauce and ranch dressing until fully combined.
Add the chicken and cheese. Fold in the shredded chicken and 3/4 cup of the cheddar cheese. Mix until everything is evenly distributed.
Transfer and top. Spread the mixture evenly into the prepared baking dish. Top with the remaining cheddar and all of the mozzarella in an even layer.
Bake. Bake uncovered for 20—25 minutes, until the dip is bubbling around the edges and the cheese on top is melted and starting to brown in spots.
Garnish and serve. Remove from the oven and let rest for 5 minutes. Top with sliced green onions and diced celery if using. Serve hot directly from the dish with tortilla chips on the side.

Nutrition (per serving)

Buffalo Chicken Dip — When the Nacho Spirit Takes Over Whatever’s in the Fridge