Blueberry crumb muffins are going to get my day going, much like cheesy chicken spaghetti fulfilled my week, it was the baked chicken solution that took it over the top, satisfying everyone. Only sprinkled lightly with a medley Pioneer Woman concocted for a chicken tortilla soup that never made it into existence, let alone anywhere near the running. Heating up my stovetop for an hour and a half of stewing didn't make sense for me or my family, overriding aromas tend to cancel out Feng shui happiness. Haven't you looked inward?
A teaspoon and a half of cumin, an ordinary teaspoon chili powder, a half teaspoon garlic powder mini remedy, purported to heal everything but gout, even wickedness inherited. Take a 375 degree oven and prove me wrong then, the olive oil was the adherent, an hour later the plan. All this family pack had to offer in the end was the quarter cup of onion, green and orange bell peppers, the mushrooms I snuck in. Otherwise intentionally neglected, left to struggle independent of any guidance, thrown to the wolves in another sense.
Shredded chicken in that manner nearly knocked me over, tumbling self-righteously into quesadillas, mixed with rinsed black beans, a quarter cup of salsa calling a do over. Shredded cheddar hates to admit when it's wrong, so why wouldn't you, too? Like cream of chicken soup, the crumb topping tends more towards enjoyment, less towards a splendid repertoire of fandangled new casseroles. I fear none of them.
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