Easy Off Chicken is an old family recipe that you will not find in any Betty Crocker cookbook, the Joy of Cooking book, or safe to say, anywhere at all. Although I had only prepared this dish once way back in the 80’s, my children still have to this day such remarkable memories of this particular entrée. They still on occasion inform perfect strangers on the streets, in the supermarkets, even their therapist, about the time their mom served them Easy Off Chicken. Like most mothers I tried to teach them all of life’s little lessons. It is so “gratifying” to me that from all the values and morals that I tried to instill into each one of them, that the MOST indelible memory that I have impressed upon them, thus far, has to do with poultry.

My children in the past have taken liberties in recalling the events of this particular dinner; however, my recollections definitely vary from theirs. You have to understand that my home during this period wasn’t exactly like an episode of the Brady Bunch, or Leave it to Beaver; it was more like The Adams Family! At the time, my husband and I owned our own business. It was a start-up business, meaning one week we ate, but then the next week was questionable. With a new business, you are always looking for start-up money which very often entails wining and dining prospective customers. My husband had invited a “prospective customer” to dine with us, and with only one day’s notice I went into high gear. I wanted everything to look perfect, for this week was that questionable week: we were getting hungry.

After strapping all four kids in their new white freshly pressed strait jackets, I cleaned the house from top to bottom, leaving not a molecule of dust or dog hair anywhere in sight. My dog to this day still cringes when he sees the vacuum cleaner. Not to digress any here, but the hose attachment works great on shedding Golden Retrievers. Even the fringe on the oriental rugs was brushed in all the same direction, the coffee table books were all placed at a forty-five degree angle, and the velvet ropes quartering off the formal living room and dining room areas were removed and neatly coiled on the top shelf of the coat closet. My husband, feeling a bit responsible for my frenzied neurotic behavior, offered to help me out by “cleaning” the bathrooms and the oven.

With the house satisfactorily sterilized, I drove to our local grocers to purchase the largest, plumpest, pinkest, organically grown chicken breast that had been sacrificed that day. Flash frozen chicken breast would not do, as this was no time for frugalness. We had an impression to make, and being close to having our home foreclosed on was not the impression we were going for on this particular occasion. Money for this dinner would be no object; I think each breast cost about twelve-fifty a pound! I then selected new red potatoes (those little ones with the skins on them), some fat, succulent mushrooms, savory green scallions that were organically grown as well (thank you very much), parmesan cheese that you grate and not shake, and wine for the broth that had a real cork in the bottle.

With only about two hours left before our guest arrived, I untied the children, dressed them in their frocks that looked like they just walked off the set of The Sound of Music, and set the table with the “wedding Lenox” that was reserved only for special occasions. Then I frantically searched through all the tape cassettes, looking for an artist besides Big Bird, for some appropriate background dinner music. I then proceeded to prepare the dinner.

Sautéing the mushrooms in butter, wine, and garlic, I breathed in the flavorable aroma and then let it waft into the air. Lovingly tucking each chicken breast neatly into the pan as if I were putting them to bed (for the last time), I added the broth, potatoes, scallions, fresh herbs, and grated parmesan cheese. Never being one for wasting precious time, I did not take time to preheat the oven. I hurriedly threw the dinner in, set the oven at 350 degrees, and then went upstairs to shower. And the legend was born.

Coming downstairs to a house filled with noxious fumes I quickly found the source and flung open the oven. Gaseous, white smoke greeted me. The odor was akin to a marriage between a rendering plant and a paper mill. My beautiful dinner was covered with ash and soot. It was too late; resuscitation was futile. The fumes from the Easy Off oven cleaner my husband had sprayed the oven with that morn had killed the dinner.

Hawaiian Pizzas served on Lenox accompanied with crystal goblets may have looked a little bit over the top, but the Dominoes pizza boy got them to us in a timely manner, so the evening wasn’t a complete loss.

Okay, I admit my family may be right: I might have a slight case of being a “wee bit” obsessive compulsive. I do have a tendency to do every thing in warp speed time; I just like things to look nice and to be orderly. I realize now, though, that if I would have slowed down to at least warp two as opposed to warp nine, I most likely would have noticed that the oven was sprayed but had not been cleaned. But in my defense, I wasn’t entirely to blame for the disaster. I did have other intruding distractions on my mind, such as the song that was programmed on the doorbell needing to be changed.