It was gray in that way March gets cruel with. not dramatic. just dull.
Mae was out. The house had this hum to it—dishwasher running, fridge making that low choke. I wasn’t even hungry when I started. I just needed something that filled a dish and baked for long enough to forget I was alone. Her Highness’s chicken pot pie with puff pastry—well, she calls it that. but I didn’t even touch her pastry.
What Martha’s Version Looked Like
Her original is all brass buttons and buttoned-up grace.
Butter crust. Not puff, not biscuit—actual pie dough. Handmade. Chilled. Rolled like a promise. You sauté onions and carrots ‘til polite, bloom flour like it’s a bouquet, stir in broth until it sighs thick. Peas, of course. Chicken, parsley. Classic comfort parade.
It’s structured. Measured. Clean corners on a messy day.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have the patience for dough. Not even puff.
So I used the scraps of biscuit mix I keep for emergencies and bad moods. I dropped them in lumps across the top like clouds refusing to hold shape. Also—I used rotisserie chicken. The good kind. Skin still on, fat clinging. I didn’t peel the carrots either. They had a little bite. Felt right.
And I added thyme. Probably too much. But I needed it to smell like something.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I started with butter, because I needed the sound of it. That low melt.
Carrots in first. Then onions. Garlic came later because I forgot and then remembered when the pan looked too orange.
The Dutch oven still has that dent—left side. I tapped it with the spoon while things thickened. Reflex. It used to mean something. maybe it still does.
Flour went in clumpy. I didn’t whisk. Just stirred like I meant it. Broth clouded the pot and for a second it smelled like Mum’s chicken soup. but heavier. like it missed something.
Mae texted:
“is the bean thing still in the fridge?”
I didn’t answer. She’d find it.
I stirred in the peas last. They looked too bright at first—like spring trying too hard. The chicken, shredded lazy with my hands, softened it all. Parsley tried to make it look hopeful. I let it.
I scooped the mess into my green Pyrex. The one from college. The edge is chipped. Just like me. I dolloped the biscuit batter on top—no measuring. Just emotion.
Baked it until the smell felt round. That’s the only word. round.
A Few Things I Learned
Let it cool. It keeps talking even after it’s out.
The peas stay too hot. They burn quiet.
Thyme takes over if you’re not watching. like grief. like joy.
And Her Highness was right about one thing—parsley makes it taste like effort.
What I Did With the Extras
Ate them cold. Over the sink. With a spoon.
The biscuit topping sank overnight and became this soft, almost dumpling-ish top layer.
Better that way. Or maybe I just needed it more.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah. When the silence needs weight.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The house smelled fuller when it cooled.
I left the spoon in the pan.
Didn’t even put it away.
If You Want Something Warmer, I Did A Leek Thing Last December That Hit Harder. Different Silence. Same Kind Of Comfort.
FAQs
Yeah, But The Biscuit Top Gets A Little Sad. Not Bad, Just… Quieter. Best Reheated In The Oven, Not The Microwave. Trust Me.
Nope. Use Puff Pastry If You’Re Feeling Fancy. Or Nothing If You’Re Just In It For The Filling. Once I Just Ate It With Toast.
Yep. I Did That Once After Thanksgiving. Tasted Like Closure.
Yes. It’S Not Soup. It’S Comfort. But If It’S Too Thick, Add A Splash More Broth Next Time. Or Milk. Or Wine. Whatever Makes You Feel Better.
Not At All. Maybe You Like Them That Way. Maybe Your Stove’S As Stubborn As Mine. Cook Them Longer Next Time If It Bugs You, Or Just Chew Slower.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Chicken Pot Pie With Puff Pastry
Description
Soft, Steamy, And Stubborn—Like I Was That Night.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Prepare the Filling Base: In a heavy-bottomed pot (mine’s the Dutch oven with the dent from the divorce night), melt 5 tablespoons of butter over medium heat. Add chopped onions and carrots—don’t fuss over uniformity—and stir occasionally for about 8–10 minutes, until they start to soften and smell like something hopeful. Add the garlic late, because you probably forgot, and cook for 30 seconds more.
- Make It Thick: Sprinkle in the flour, stir it through until the veg looks dull and clumpy. Slowly pour in the chicken broth, whisking or just aggressively stirring—whatever keeps your head in it. Bring it to a low boil. Let it simmer 5–7 minutes until it’s thick enough to coat the back of a spoon (or your finger, if you’re me and impatient).
- Stir in the Rest: Add the frozen peas—straight from the bag, no need to thaw. Season with salt and pepper. Drop in the shredded rotisserie chicken (use your hands; it’s faster) and a big handful of chopped parsley. I added thyme here too. Maybe too much. Smelled like a memory I wasn’t ready for.
- Make the Top (Not Her Pastry): Instead of rolling out a crust like Martha says, mix biscuit dough from whatever mix you’ve got in the pantry. Add milk until it’s thick but scoopable. Drop big spoonfuls across the top of the filling, spaced like lazy clouds. No need to spread them—they’ll puff where they want to.
- Bake It Until It Smells Like Comfort: Set the oven to 375°F / 190°C. Place the dish on a baking sheet in case of bubbling over. Bake uncovered for 40–45 minutes, until the biscuit tops are golden and the filling burbles at the edges like it’s talking to you.
- Let It Sit (Even If You Don’t Want To): Cool for at least 10–15 minutes before serving. The peas will still burn your mouth if you’re stubborn. I was. Still worth it.