Slow Cooker Chicken and Gravy

I told Scott on Wednesday. I waited until the kids were asleep, and I sat across from him at the kitchen table, and I said, "I have breast cancer. Stage II. I need a mastectomy and probably chemotherapy." I said it like a report — facts, no editorializing, the way you deliver information when you cannot afford to feel it yet.

He stared at me. He didn't say anything for a long time. Then he said, "What do we do?" and I said, "We fight it," and he nodded, and he reached across the table and held my hand, and it was the most connected we have been in months, and it took cancer to get us there, which is the kind of irony that isn't funny at all.

I told Mom on Thursday. I called her from the parking lot of the clinic during my lunch break because I needed to be somewhere private and my car has become the place where I do all my crying. She was quiet for a long time. Diane Dawson quiet is a specific thing — it is not the absence of words, it is the presence of everything she's choosing not to say. Then she said, "Tell me everything the doctor told you," and I did, and she listened, and then she said, "I'm coming up this weekend," and I said, "Mom, you don't have to," and she said, "I'm coming up this weekend," and that was the end of the discussion.

I told Brett on Friday. I drove to his apartment and sat in his living room and told him, and Brett — who handles his own disability with iron stoicism, who has not cried in front of me since the day of his accident — put his face in his hands and cried. I held his hand and said, "I'm going to be okay," and I didn't know if it was true but I said it because that's what older sisters do for little brothers, even when the little brother is forty and the older sister has cancer.

My birthday was Sunday. September 18. Thirty-three years old. Mom drove up from Twin Falls on Saturday with a cooler full of food — pot roast, bread, cinnamon rolls, pickles, enough provisions for a siege. She cleaned my house while I was at work, did three loads of laundry, organized the pantry, and had dinner on the table when I walked in the door. She didn't fuss. She didn't cry (in front of me). She just did what Diane does: she showed up and she handled it.

For my birthday dinner, Mom made her pot roast — the real one, the Sunday one, the one that means family and home and everything is going to be all right. We sat at the table — Mom, me, Scott, Mason, Lily — and ate roast and potatoes and carrots, and Mason told a long story about a boy at school who can burp the alphabet, and Lily got mashed potatoes in her hair, and it was normal. Perfectly, heartbreakingly normal. And I thought: I want a thousand more of these dinners. A thousand more potatoes in Lily's hair. A thousand more of Mason's stories. I want to be here for all of it. I want to watch them grow up. I want to get old and arthritic like Dad and complain about the weather and make pot roast on Sundays and be here. I want to be here.

Mom gave me a birthday card with a note inside that said: "You are the strongest person I know. You were born strong and you have gotten stronger, and this is just one more thing you will survive. I love you. — Mom." I have the note in my nightstand drawer. I read it every morning. I will read it every morning until this is over.

The surgery is scheduled for October. A double mastectomy. Then chemo. The fight starts now.

That week, I didn’t want anything complicated—I just wanted something that felt like a thousand more Sunday dinners. This slow cooker chicken and gravy is exactly that kind of food: humble, warm, the kind that fills a house with a smell that makes everyone wander into the kitchen asking when it’ll be ready. I made it the day after I read Mom’s note, and it helped. Here’s how I do it.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 6–8 hours (low) | Total Time: 6 hours 10 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken breasts or thighs
1 (10.5 oz) can cream of chicken soup
1 (1 oz) packet chicken gravy mix
1 cup chicken broth
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
Salt to taste
Mashed potatoes or egg noodles, for serving
Fresh parsley, chopped, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

Layer the chicken. Place the chicken breasts or thighs in a single layer in the bottom of a 4–6 quart slow cooker. Season lightly with salt and pepper.
Mix the gravy. In a medium bowl, whisk together the cream of chicken soup, gravy packet, chicken broth, garlic powder, onion powder, and thyme until smooth and combined.
Pour and cook. Pour the gravy mixture evenly over the chicken. Cover and cook on LOW for 6–8 hours or on HIGH for 3–4 hours, until the chicken is cooked through and very tender.
Shred or slice. Remove the chicken from the slow cooker and shred with two forks or slice into thick pieces. Return to the slow cooker and stir gently to coat in the gravy.
Serve. Spoon chicken and gravy over mashed potatoes or egg noodles. Garnish with fresh parsley if desired. Serve immediately, and let the table do the rest.

Nutrition (per serving)

Slow Cooker Chicken and Gravy — The Sunday Dinner That Means Everything Is Going to Be All Right