Pear Chicken Salad

The tech company called back. The September picnic was such a hit that they want Sarah's Table to cater their November team meeting. Forty people. $1,600 budget. Indoor this time — their office in the Gulch, a conference room with a long table and a view of the Nashville skyline. I said yes immediately this time — no internal crisis, no throwing up, just: yes. The "yes" muscle is getting stronger. The "yes" that used to require a full emotional breakdown before I could say it now comes out like breathing. Yes. We cater. We go where the people are. The table travels.

But. The "but" that follows every small business success: staffing. I can't be at the restaurant AND at a catering event at the same time. James can't leave the smoker AND help me transport food. Patricia has her own schedule. Wanda is part-time. DeShawn is learning but he's nineteen and I'm not leaving him in charge of a restaurant on a Saturday. The math of one-woman-does-everything is breaking. The math has been breaking slowly for six months and the catering gig is the thing that finally snaps it.

I need help. Real help. Not part-time, not occasional, not Mama-can-you-watch-the-kids help. I need another cook. Someone who can run the lunch service while I do catering. Someone who can make the cornbread when I'm not there. Someone who — and this is the hard part, the part that makes my chest tight — someone who I trust with Earline's recipe. Earline's cornbread. In someone else's hands. The recipe that has been mine, that was Lorraine's, that was Earline's, that has never been made by anyone outside the family. The idea of teaching it to an employee feels like giving away a piece of my grandmother. But the business needs it. The table needs more hands. Growth requires trust. Trust requires letting go. And letting go is the thing Sarah Mitchell has never been good at because every person she's ever let hold something important has either dropped it or walked away with it.

I posted a job listing. "Cook wanted. Sarah's Table, Gallatin Pike. Must love cornbread. Must respect the skillet." Mama called me when she saw it on the Facebook. She said: "You're hiring someone to make Earline's cornbread?" I said: "Mama, I can't be in two places at once." She said: "Your grandmother could." I said: "Earline couldn't either, Mama, she just made it look like she could." Silence. Then: "Fine. But they better not add sugar." They better not add sugar. The Mitchell hiring criteria, distilled to five words. The cornbread stays unsweetened. The cornbread stays Earline's. The person just has to be worthy of the skillet. That's all.

The catering event went smoothly. Forty people. Chicken and dumplings (the travel-well option — dumplings hold heat, the sauce thickens naturally during transport, the dish arrives looking and tasting like it was made on-site). Cornbread on the side. Pecan pie for dessert (Chloe made the pies — four of them, the production line she perfected for Thanksgiving, now deployed for corporate). The client loved it. They're talking about a monthly contract. MONTHLY. Recurring revenue from a corporation that pays on time and doesn't argue about the bill. The dental practice paid me biweekly with direct deposit and I thought that was the pinnacle of financial reliability. A monthly catering contract is: the next pinnacle. The pinnacles keep coming. The pinnacles are made of cornbread.

Dinner this week: chicken and dumplings. What I made for the catering event, brought home in a container, reheated on the stove, served to three children who have no idea that the dinner they're eating is the same dinner that forty tech workers paid $40 a plate for today. The food is the same whether it's on a conference table or a kitchen table. The love is the same. The dumplings don't know the difference.

The chicken and dumplings fed forty people on a Thursday, and I came home with a half-pan of shredded chicken that was too good to waste and not enough to serve again. So on Friday, when the restaurant was quiet and Chloe was at school and I had exactly forty-five minutes to eat something that wasn’t standing over a prep sink, I made this — a pear chicken salad that is the opposite of a catering event in every possible way: small, calm, no conference table, no skyline view, just me and a bowl and a ripe Bartlett pear and the leftover chicken that carried forty people through lunch the day before. The food keeps teaching me things. Friday’s lesson: the best meal you make all week might be the one nobody paid for.

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

Ingredients

2 cups cooked chicken breast, shredded or chopped (rotisserie works perfectly)
1 large ripe Bartlett or Anjou pear, cored and diced (about 1 cup)
2 stalks celery, thinly sliced
1/4 cup red onion, finely diced
1/3 cup mayonnaise
2 tablespoons plain Greek yogurt
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/4 cup toasted pecans, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
Lettuce leaves or toasted bread, for serving

Instructions

Cook the chicken. If not using leftover or rotisserie chicken, simmer 2 boneless skinless chicken breasts in lightly salted water for 18—20 minutes until cooked through. Let cool completely, then shred or chop into bite-sized pieces.
Toast the pecans. In a dry skillet over medium heat, toast the chopped pecans for 3—4 minutes, stirring frequently, until fragrant and lightly golden. Remove from heat and let cool.
Make the dressing. In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise, Greek yogurt, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, salt, and pepper until smooth and well combined.
Combine the salad. Add the chicken, diced pear, celery, and red onion to the dressing. Fold gently until everything is evenly coated. Taste and adjust salt, pepper, or lemon juice as needed.
Finish and chill. Fold in the toasted pecans and fresh parsley. For best flavor, refrigerate for at least 15 minutes before serving to allow the flavors to come together.
Serve. Spoon onto crisp lettuce leaves for a lighter presentation, or pile onto toasted bread for a proper sandwich. Serve cold.

Nutrition (per serving)

Pear Chicken Salad — What the Catering Life Teaches You About Leftover Grace