Slow-Cooker Chicken Parmesan

I am worried about Mama. The aide called Thursday to say she was not eating well—she had refused breakfast two days running, which is not like Mama, who even in the depths of the worst days has always eaten when food was put in front of her, because Bernice's relationship with food is too fundamental to be overridden by ordinary confusion. When Bernice doesn't eat, something is wrong. I asked the aide if she seemed ill. The aide said she seemed tired. Very tired.

I drove to Bessemer and parked in the nursing home parking lot, which is as close as I could get—they have security at the door now, no visitors, strictly enforced—and I called the aide on the phone and asked her to open a window on Mama's floor, just crack a window, and I stood in the parking lot with a container of sweet potato pie and held it up toward the window and said, out loud, feeling slightly foolish and completely not foolish at all: "Mama, I'm here. The pie is here. Can you smell it?" The aide, who is a good woman, called me back twenty minutes later and said my mother's head had turned toward the window. That was all. Her head turned toward the window. I drove home crying and I do not know if the cry was relief or grief or anticipation of grief or all of them at once, which is where I have been living since March 2018 and which I have learned is a permanent address.

I made a pot of Mama's collard greens that evening. The ones she made for church suppers, that go in the pot before eight in the morning and don't come out until dinner, the ones with the ham hock and the vinegar and the pinch of sugar that she always denied was in there. I made them all day and ate them for dinner and let them be the prayer and the vigil and the love that can't cross the parking lot distance. The greens are there. She is there. The love is cooking and does not stop cooking regardless of what the locked door says.

The collard greens taught me something I already knew but needed to learn again: that cooking all day is itself an act of faith, a way of saying I am still here even when you cannot be anywhere that matters. I have been reaching for slow-cooker meals ever since — anything that goes in before morning and comes out at dinner, anything that fills the house with something warm while I am doing the hard work of waiting. This Slow-Cooker Chicken Parmesan has become one of those anchor recipes for me, the kind you start before you sit down with your worry, and the kind that is ready when you finally need to eat something that feels like care.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 4–6 hours | Total Time: 4 hours 10 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (about 6 oz each)
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon Italian seasoning
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
2 cups marinara sauce (store-bought or homemade)
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
1/4 cup Italian-seasoned breadcrumbs
Fresh basil or parsley, for garnish (optional)
Cooked pasta or crusty bread, for serving

Instructions

Season the chicken. Pat the chicken breasts dry and season both sides with garlic powder, Italian seasoning, salt, and pepper.
Layer the slow cooker. Pour 1 cup of the marinara sauce into the bottom of a 6-quart slow cooker. Arrange the seasoned chicken breasts in a single layer on top.
Add sauce and Parmesan. Spoon the remaining 1 cup of marinara over the chicken. Sprinkle the grated Parmesan evenly over the top.
Cook low and slow. Cover and cook on LOW for 4–6 hours, or until the chicken is fully cooked through and tender enough to pull apart easily with a fork.
Add the melting cheeses. In the last 20–30 minutes of cooking, sprinkle the shredded mozzarella and breadcrumbs over the chicken. Replace the lid and allow the cheese to melt completely.
Serve. Carefully transfer the chicken to plates or a serving dish. Spoon extra sauce from the pot over the top, garnish with fresh basil or parsley if using, and serve over pasta or alongside crusty bread.

Nutrition (per serving)

Slow-Cooker Chicken Parmesan — Something That Cooks All Day While You Wait