Cashew Chicken Salad Sandwiches

Mother's Day. Dave made me breakfast — coffee and toast, slightly burnt. Year seventeen. The toast is a fossil record of our marriage — each burnt slice a layer, each layer a year, and the layers add up to a geology of love and carbon. Someday archaeologists will find the toast and conclude that the Novak household was powered by caffeine and mild incineration.

The kids gave me cards. Justin's said 'Happy Mother's Day. You're the toughest person I know.' Toughest. Not best, not kindest, not most loving — toughest. Justin's compliments are calibrated to a different scale, and the scale measures endurance, and 'toughest' is the highest mark on the scale, and I will take it, and I will keep the card in the drawer with the other cards, and the drawer is the archive of everything Justin has given me, which is not much in quantity and is everything in weight.

I FaceTimed Gayle in the morning and then drove to her house for lunch. I made Gayle's favorite — chicken salad sandwiches with grapes and pecans, on her white bread. We ate at her table, just the two of us, while the rest of the family gave me the morning. Gayle said, 'You are a good mother, Brenda.' She has said this before but not often, and the not-often makes the saying enormous. I said, 'I learned from you.' She said, 'You learned what to do. You figured out how on your own.' She is right. She taught me the what. The how was mine — the taking in of Darla's children, the truck cab cooking, the blog, the book. The how is always harder than the what, and the how is the story.

I made the Sunday dinner — pot roast, mashed potatoes, gravy, the full treatment. Because Mother's Day is Sunday, and Sunday is Sunday dinner, and the two converge like rivers, and the convergence is the feast.

The sandwiches I brought to Gayle’s table that afternoon were the whole point of the visit — not a side note, not an afterthought, but the offering itself. When your mother tells you that you are a good mother, and you know she doesn’t say it often, you want the food in front of her to be exactly right. Cashew chicken salad is my version of the recipe I’ve made for Gayle for years: cool and a little sweet, with crunch where you want crunch, on the softest white bread she keeps in her pantry. It’s the kind of lunch that says “I thought about you” without having to say it out loud.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 15 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

3 cups cooked chicken breast, chopped or shredded
1/2 cup red seedless grapes, halved
1/3 cup roasted cashews, roughly chopped
1/4 cup pecans, chopped
2 stalks celery, thinly sliced
1/3 cup mayonnaise
2 tablespoons plain Greek yogurt
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
Salt and black pepper to taste
8 slices soft white bread
Butter lettuce leaves, for serving (optional)

Instructions

Make the dressing. In a large bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise, Greek yogurt, honey, Dijon mustard, and onion powder until smooth and well combined.
Combine the salad. Add the chopped chicken, grapes, cashews, pecans, and celery to the bowl. Stir gently until everything is evenly coated with the dressing.
Season. Taste and season with salt and black pepper. If you prefer a lighter consistency, add another spoonful of yogurt or a small squeeze of lemon juice.
Chill if time allows. For best flavor, cover and refrigerate for at least 20 minutes before serving so the flavors settle together. The salad keeps well for up to 2 days.
Assemble the sandwiches. Spoon a generous portion of chicken salad onto one slice of white bread. Add a leaf of butter lettuce if using, then top with the second slice. Cut diagonally and serve.

Nutrition (per serving)

Cashew Chicken Salad Sandwiches — The Lunch I Made for Mom