Chicken Taco Salad

Amma stopped recognizing Arvind. Not permanently — not yet. But on Sunday, when Arvind arrived for dinner, Amma looked at him and asked Appa: "Who is the man?" The man. Her son. The boy she raised, the teenager she wept for, the man who came back. The man is her son and she looked at him and didn't know. Appa said, "That's Arvind. Your son." Gently. The way you say something you've been preparing to say. Amma looked again. Something cleared. "Arvind. Of course. I know Arvind." And she went to the kitchen to get his plate, as if nothing had happened. But something happened. And Arvind went to the bathroom and stayed there for ten minutes and when he came out his eyes were red and he ate his dinner and didn't talk and Dina held his hand under the table. He called me from the car on the way home. "She didn't know me, Akka." "She came back. She recognized you." "For a moment she didn't." "I know." "How do you — how do you prepare for this?" "You don't. You just... hold it. And come back next Sunday." I know this because I've been preparing for three years. I've been watching the line go down, cataloging every lapse, reading the neurology textbooks, understanding the progression. But understanding doesn't prepare you for the moment your mother looks at your brother and says "who is the man." Nothing prepares you. You just hold it. And come back. I made Amma's chicken chettinad that night. The fiery one. The dish of anger and love and the specific, fierce refusal to let the disease win without a fight. The chettinad was hot. The pepper burned. The tears burned more. Arvind is the first family member she's lost. Not permanently. Not yet. But the losing has started. The fortress has another crack.

The chettinad I made that Sunday was Amma’s — untranslatable, unrepeatable, hers. But in the days that followed, when I needed to keep cooking, to keep showing up in the kitchen the way we keep showing up on Sundays, I reached for something with the same heat and refusal: this chicken taco salad, loud with spice and lime and the specific stubbornness of a dish that does not go gently. It isn’t her recipe. But it has her spirit — the part that fights back. Make it hot. Make it fierce. That’s the whole point.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 15 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 lb boneless skinless chicken breasts
1 tbsp olive oil
1 oz packet taco seasoning (or 2 tbsp homemade blend)
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper (add more if you need the fire)
1 large head romaine lettuce, chopped
1 can (15 oz) black beans, drained and rinsed
1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved
1 cup corn kernels (fresh, thawed frozen, or drained canned)
1/2 red onion, thinly sliced
1 large avocado, diced
1 cup shredded Mexican-blend or sharp cheddar cheese
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup chunky salsa
1 lime, cut into wedges
1/4 cup fresh cilantro leaves, roughly chopped
Tortilla chips, for serving

Instructions

Season the chicken. Pat chicken breasts dry, then toss with olive oil, taco seasoning, and cayenne until evenly coated on all sides.
Cook until done. Heat a heavy skillet or cast-iron pan over medium-high heat until very hot. Cook chicken 6 to 7 minutes per side, pressing down slightly, until the crust is dark and the internal temperature reaches 165°F. Let rest on a cutting board for 5 minutes.
Slice or shred. Cut the chicken against the grain into thin strips, or use two forks to pull it into rough chunks — either works, both are good.
Build the base. Spread the chopped romaine across a large serving platter or divide between four wide bowls.
Layer the toppings. Scatter the black beans, cherry tomatoes, corn, red onion, avocado, and cheese over the lettuce in whatever order pleases you.
Add the chicken. Arrange the warm chicken over the top so it can soften the cheese slightly on contact.
Dress and finish. Spoon sour cream and salsa over the salad, squeeze the lime wedges generously over everything, and scatter the cilantro on top. Serve immediately with tortilla chips on the side.

Nutrition (per serving)

Chicken Taco Salad — The Fire You Carry When You Can’t Lose