Tonight, I will be attempting to cook chicken divan for Leezie and Speed. It’s the comfiest comfort food I can think of, plus I think Leezie is still a big fan of the dish, as we all are. Just the thought of it brings back many happy memories…

She would come home and open the refrigerator and pull out the chicken, the broccoli, the cans of creamed soup, all bought the Sunday before on our dad’s weekly trip to the A&P. In that kitchen with the mustard-hued appliances and dark wooden cabinets, she would cook—“her uniform still on”—while sipping a glass of wine, or chatting with our dad or maybe one of us if we were unselfish enough to remove ourselves from our bedrooms and our homework (or in my case, the TV). She’d drench the chicken and broccoli with the cream, before smothering it all with bright orange flecks of cheese and a sprinkling of breadcrumbs. The dish was then placed in the oven behind that mustard-hued door to bake.

Soon, the scent of melted cheese—not pungent but hearty and rich—wafted throughout the house, creeping into my room where I sat “studying” on my twin bed watching Full House on a tiny black and white TV or listening to WAVA (back when it was top 40, not Christian Contemporary) with a pen in my hand and a purple 3-ring binder on my lap.

The smell soon summoned me down the staircase and into the dining room, where the six of us would gather around a long oak table in a room with carpeting the color of pea soup. In the center of the table was the meal, bubbling and steaming and releasing that scent that was not pungent but hearty and rich.

We’d serve ourselves big, heaping spoonfuls of chicken and broccoli with a crust of melted cheese atop a bed of steaming white rice. Four tiny girls nourished by this delectable meal, with food bought by our dad at the A&P and prepared by our mom who cooked with her uniform still on.