White Chicken Chili

    This hearty white chicken chili brings together tender chicken, two kinds of beans, sweet corn, green chiles, and plenty of heat in a rich, creamy broth. Lime adds a bright finish, while avocado and Monterey Jack make each bowl deeply satisfying.

Serve with warm, crusty bread.

INGREDIENTS 

• 2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
• 3 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into ½ inch cubes
• 1 medium yellow onion, diced
• 5 garlic cloves, minced
• 1 jalapeño, seeded, finely chopped
• 2 4.5 oz cans green chilies
• 1 15.5 oz cans great northern beans, drained and rinsed
• 1 15.5 oz cans Canelli beans, drained and rinsed
• 1 cup frozen corn
• 4 oz tomatoes, diced
• 4 cups low-sodium chicken broth 
• 1 tbsp cumin
• 1 tbsp dried oregano
• 1 tbsp salt
• 1 tbsp ground black pepper
• 1 tbsp cayenne pepper
• 1 lime, juiced
• 1 cup sour cream
• ½ cup heavy whipping cream
• 1 avocado, thinly sliced, for serving
• 1/5 cup Monterey Jack cheese, shredded, for serving

INSTRUCTIONS:

     1).  Heat the oil in a large pot over medium-low heat.

     2).  Add chicken, onion, garlic, and jalapeños, a pinch of salt and pepper, cook and stir until chicken is no longer pink and the juices run clear, 10-15 minutes.

     3).  Add chicken broth, green chilis, cumin, oregano, cayenne pepper, and bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer uncovered for 30-60 minutes.

     4).  Remove chicken from the pot and shred it with two forks.

     5).  Add beans, smash about ¼ of the beans with a wooden spoon until slightly thickened.

     6).  Add corn, lime, tomatoes, and shredded chicken, let cook for 1 minute.

     7).  Remove the pot from heat.  Stir in sour cream and heavy cream.

     8).  Ladle into bowls and serve with avocado and shredded cheese.

SERVES 6 

Polaroids

You were younger than I am now.

I keep forgetting that.

The mind arranges a father

into permanent authority.

But here you are,

thirty-something, in a wide collar,

trousers the color of pistachio ice cream,

plaid belt snug against a narrow waist,

looking less like a patriarch

than a man for whom

the world was still unfolding.

You spanked me with that belt.

I remember its width,

how the leather folded in your hand,

the silence before the sting.

There's Chad on your shoulders,

all limbs and teeth.

There's Julie in your arms,

her cheek against your chest.

Here's all seven of us with you and Mother

arranged as pioneers,

my brother and I with cap pistols,

the girls in bonnets and prairie dresses,

you with a long-barreled rifle, grinning

like you'd already won the war.

You delighted in your children,

as if we were the only evidence you needed

that God exists.

The end times came later.

Doomsday televangelists.

Church after church abandoned

over arguments with the pastor.

A God who punished instead of played.

Kansas City, 1985.

You didn't have tickets.

We sat on the roof of that green station wagon

outside Royals Stadium

and listened to the World Series broadcast.

Every roar from inside

rolled across the parking lot

like distant thunder.

I don't recognize the slender man

swinging a golf club in the front yard,

but he looks like me,

squinting into the sun,

laughing at something off-frame.

I know that laugh.

I've heard it in my throat.

I've heard it watching my daughters

perform Three Stooges skits

at the kitchen table.

For twenty years I was angry at you

for becoming someone

I feared I'd become.

Dad, I don't know

when wonder left you.

I miss the man

who still expected

to be surprised.

I wish my daughters

had met him.