Sourdough Chicken Sandwiches

After Thanksgiving. The house in Grinnell is quieter than it was, which shouldn't be possible because it was already quiet, but the quiet has deepened, the way water deepens when you wade further from shore. Marlene is eating less. The half-bowls of soup have become quarter-bowls. The cinnamon rolls, which she used to eat whole with extra frosting, are now halved, then quartered, the portions shrinking in proportion to something I can measure but cannot stop.

I cook anyway. I cook as if the portions don't matter, as if the bowl being full is the point even when the eating has become partial, as if the act of placing food on the table is itself the nourishment, the food for the soul that continues after the food for the body becomes optional. The tater tot hotdish on Thursday. The soup on Monday. The bread every other day, sourdough from the starter named Marlene, the bread rising in the kitchen where the woman named Marlene is shrinking and the bread named for her is growing and the irony is not lost on me but I don't dwell on it because dwelling is not cooking and cooking is what I do.

Roger is tender with her in a way I haven't seen before — not just the tea-bringing, not just the blanket-adjusting, but a new tenderness, the tenderness of a man who is rehearsing. He touches her shoulder when he passes. He holds her hand at the table. He sits closer on the couch than he used to, close enough that their arms touch, and the touching is the thing he's saving, the feeling of her beside him, stored in his muscle memory the way recipes are stored in mine, because he knows — we all know — that the touching will end and the memory of the touch will have to be enough.

I made chicken noodle soup three times this week. Three variations: classic with egg noodles, ginger-lemon with orzo, and a brothy version with just chicken and herbs and the thinnest possible noodles because Mom can manage thin noodles but not thick ones and the soup must meet her where she is, not where she was. The soups are getting lighter. The foods are getting softer. The kitchen is adjusting to the body, the menu calibrating to what remains, and what remains is smaller every week but still present, still Marlene, still asking for more frosting even when the cinnamon roll is untouched. The asking is what matters. The asking means she's here.

Of everything I made that week — the hotdish, the three soups, the half-eaten rolls — it was the sourdough that kept me tethered. The starter rose on schedule whether or not the rest of the house felt like it was moving forward, and there is something steadying about that. When I had leftover roasted chicken and a fresh loaf cooling on the counter, this sandwich came together the way good things do in hard times: without a plan, out of what was already there. It’s the kind of recipe that feeds the people at the table — Roger, me, whoever stopped by — when feeding Mom had become something smaller and more careful and harder to measure.

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

Ingredients

8 slices sourdough bread (from a homemade or bakery loaf)
1 1/2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken breasts (about 2 large)
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
Salt and black pepper to taste
4 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
4 leaves romaine or butter lettuce
2 medium tomatoes, sliced
4 slices provolone or Swiss cheese
1/2 red onion, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon unsalted butter (for toasting)

Instructions

Season the chicken. Pat chicken breasts dry with paper towels. In a small bowl, combine garlic powder, smoked paprika, onion powder, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon black pepper. Rub seasoning evenly over both sides of each breast.
Cook the chicken. Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add chicken and cook 6—7 minutes per side until golden and cooked through (internal temperature 165°F). Remove from heat and let rest 5 minutes before slicing.
Slice the chicken. Cut chicken crosswise into 1/2-inch slices. If serving someone who needs smaller bites, slice thinner on the diagonal.
Toast the bread. Wipe out the skillet and melt butter over medium heat. Toast sourdough slices 1—2 minutes per side until golden and crisp. Work in batches if needed.
Mix the spread. Stir together mayonnaise and Dijon mustard in a small bowl. Season with a pinch of salt and pepper.
Assemble the sandwiches. Spread the mayo-Dijon mixture on one side of each bread slice. Layer lettuce, sliced chicken, cheese, tomato, and red onion on four of the slices. Top with the remaining bread, spread-side down, and press gently.
Serve warm. Cut sandwiches on the diagonal and serve immediately. Pair with a light broth or simple green salad.

Nutrition (per serving)

Sourdough Chicken Sandwiches — The Bread That Kept Rising While We Waited