I’m hoping that readers share a longing to hear those three – special – little words that mean so much. No – I’m not talking “I love you” or “go Chicago Cubs.” I’m talking “chicken pot pie.” OMG – be still my heart (but not too still). As a kid, my mother served me Banquet chicken pot pies with regularity. They were wonderful. Nourishing. Gooey. Delish. For me, it was often breakfast (seriously). And it was PB & J with a slice of bologna on Wonderbread for lunch. Anywayyy. . . .

When I was in law school, I lived at 1006 North State Street in Chicago – across from the old Mister Kelly’s just off of Rush Street. Kitty corner from Papa Milano’s. It was a dumpy walk up apartment that was replete with mice, cockroaches and an occasional ant. My refrigerator freezer was stocked with – yep – chicken pot pies. And the pantry full of canned corn. My dinner started with putting the CPP in the oven – 35 minutes at 400 degrees. Then I would tear the label off the can of corn, peel open the top and put the can on the burner of the stove. When the water in the can bubbled, it was ready. I’d fold the top down, drain and pour the contents on top of my – chicken pot pie. Yum.

These days, I’m still a big fan of chicken pot pie. And yet despite my culinary elan, Donna remains on the sidelines except for the rare occasion when I’ve earned some hubby points and we sit down to dine on chicken pot pie.

For dessert, I’m a big fan of three (other) little words that I long to hear – “Key Lime Pie.”