Meal No. 3373: Brendan's Moroccan Bistro Chicken

For the first time in almost exactly two years, I brought out a long-time favorite named in honor of him who introduced it to me, former 7th grade student and almost 30-year friend Brendan, whose family became pretty dear to me and with whom there's been an enduring connection over the decades. He and his wife live in New Zealand, so the regular Christmastime visits have not been occurring, but we still manage to check in with one another from time to time. In fact, I think it was our spurt of email exchanges over the preceding days that brought this dish back to mind for me, and onto the plates it went this past Saturday night, with its always-present accompaniment of quinoa and, this time, roasted broccoli florets.

The cool and grey dampness of Sunday morning made me all the more glad that the sunnier days preceding this were not squandered, up to and including the quick mowing of the lawn Saturday before I showered and donned the somber dark clothes of mourning for the memorial service for my friend and mentor and colleague, Joe Milner, on the campus of Wake Forest University. Accompanied by former student and excellent teacher Karen Barnes, and grateful to see so many wonderful folks all pulled together by the sweeping grand orbit of that gentle giant, it was a perfect celebration and remembrance of a great man and dear friend.

Saturday’s steep rise into the hot and humid, instantly transporting us, say, to the remembered disappointment of a rained-out July 4th cookout, energized an amply-stocked system of unstable air, bringing classic summer storm activity and a late evening drenching. I don’t know from a meteorological perspective if that’s quite what happened but I feel like some weatherman somewhere along the way said something like that…and so I believe that could have been it. The insufficiently-informed mind still bent on making sense of things assembles snatches of stowed-away tidbits and scraps from past readings or stories, and the man in whom that patch-working mind labors satisfies himself that it covers well enough the mystery of an inconsequential unknown.