Bless this humble pie,
a base built not from the sweat of my brow
but from the mercies of a store-bought crust,
pressed and patted into the dish
no shame, only relief.
Let the filling rise:
canned peas, carrots, and potatoes,
each a small surrender to ease,
brought together not for show,
but for shelter.
See the sauce
a delicate roux, born of butter and onions,
whisked with flour, thickened with homemade chicken stock,
a swirl of milk for creaminess,
coating every vegetable morsel,
bringing them into the fold.
Fold in the shredded remnants
of last night’s rotisserie chicken
a rescue, not a recipe
scattered, nestled,
waiting under a top crust,
flaky and golden,
crimped (barely), sealed (miraculously).
Baked until the kitchen fills with warmth,
until the crust blisters and browns,
until you can’t remember what’s from a can
and what’s from your heart.
This is not a chef’s pot pie;
It’s a pot pie for the tired, the cozy,
those who know that shortcuts can be holy,
and that homemade isn’t always about doing it all from scratch,
but about making do, making comfort,
and creating a meal that hugs you back.
No regrets. Only gratitude.
Only the last bite,
lingering and warm.
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