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Puppy Chow —rsquo; For the Boy Who Discovered the World Has Snacks

The second week of Clay's volunteer work. He called Thursday. He said today was different — a younger guy, twenty-four, Marines, who reminded Clay of himself at that age, and Clay said he told the guy about the camping. About the Red River Gorge. About the sleeping outside without nightmares. He said the guy didn't say anything but he wrote it down, and writing it down means something, means the words landed somewhere, means the seed was planted.

Made a pot roast because pot roast is the food of settling in, the food that says it's October and the work is steady and the days are getting shorter and the pot roast takes three hours and the three hours are a kind of meditation, a slow attention to heat and time that produces something tender from something tough. That's what Clay is doing at the VA — applying slow attention to tough things and producing something tender. The metaphor writes itself. I just make the pot roast.

Earl Thomas started preschool this fall. Three years old, wearing a backpack bigger than his torso, walking into a building full of strangers with the confidence of a Hensley and the sociability of a Mitchell (Jolene's family is the friendly one). Travis sent a picture of the first day and Earl Thomas is smiling, actually smiling, not the forced smile of a child told to smile but the real smile of a boy who is about to discover that the world has more people in it than his family, and some of those people have snacks.

I wasn’t going to make a dessert — the pot roast had already done the emotional heavy lifting for the week — but then Travis sent that picture of Earl Thomas on his first day of preschool, backpack nearly as big as he is, smiling that real smile, and I kept thinking about that last line I wrote: some of those people have snacks. That’s the whole promise of preschool, isn’t it? So I made a big batch of Puppy Chow, because it’s the snack that says the world is sweet and shareable and worth walking into, and because Earl Thomas is three years old and he deserves something made just for the occasion of him being brave.

Puppy Chow

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 5 min | Total Time: 15 min | Servings: 12

Ingredients

  • 9 cups Rice Chex cereal
  • 1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips
  • 1/2 cup creamy peanut butter
  • 1/4 cup unsalted butter
  • 1 tsp vanilla extract
  • 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar

Instructions

  1. Prep the cereal. Measure the Rice Chex into a large mixing bowl and set aside. You want enough room to stir without things flying off the sides.
  2. Melt the coating. In a microwave-safe bowl, combine the chocolate chips, peanut butter, and butter. Microwave in 30-second intervals, stirring well between each, until fully melted and smooth. Stir in the vanilla extract.
  3. Coat the cereal. Pour the chocolate-peanut butter mixture over the cereal. Using a rubber spatula, fold gently until every piece is evenly coated — take your time here; patience pays off, same as with a pot roast.
  4. Add the powdered sugar. Transfer the coated cereal to a large zip-top bag (or work in two batches). Add the powdered sugar, seal the bag, and shake until every piece is dusted white. Don’t be shy — the sugar is the whole point.
  5. Cool and set. Spread the finished Puppy Chow in a single layer on a parchment-lined baking sheet or countertop and let it cool for at least 10 minutes before serving. Store leftovers in an airtight container at room temperature for up to a week — though it won’t last that long.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 275 | Protein: 5g | Fat: 12g | Carbs: 38g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 175mg

Craig Hensley
About the cook who shared this
Craig Hensley
Week 492 of Craig’s 30-year story · Lexington, Kentucky
Craig is a retired coal miner from Harlan County, Kentucky — a man who spent twenty years underground and seventeen hours trapped in a collapsed tunnel before he was twenty-four. He moved his family to Lexington when the mine closed, learned to cook his mama Betty's Appalachian recipes from memory because she never wrote them down, and now he's trying to get them on paper before they're lost. He says "reckon" and "fixing to" and means both. His bourbon-glazed ribs are, according to his wife Connie, "acceptable" — which is the highest praise she gives.

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