Slow Cooker Sunday: Chicken Enchilada Soup

As you may know - because I've talked about it a lot, like incessantly - this winter, I've been having a bit of a love thing with my slow cooker. Wait, I have to stop right now. I call it a crockpot and I only called it a slow cooker in the title of this post because it provided alliteration. Whew. I feel better getting that off my chest.

Anyway, sooooooome people call it a slow cooker, and that is a much more descriptive title for sure, but I really like calling it a crockpot. Also, calling the art of crockpotting "crockpottery". It makes it all sound very artistic, don't you think? Yes. The answer is yes.

So, it's technically not winter anymore, but no one told Chicago. And, winter or not, I am still afraid of  meat, so like, I'm going to milk crockpot season as long as I can.

You read that right, I'm afraid of meat. I mean, obviously, I'm not a vegetarian. Or worse, a vegan. But yeah, I'm afraid of meat. Cooking it, that is. I don't like, get nervous when I see it on a plate like I bet stupid vegans do. (Sorry, vegans. No, actually, I'm not. You can at LEAST eat butter. I feel like cows like giving us butter, even though they are not involved with the churning, which seems like the most fun part, honestly.)

Anyway, I LIKE meat. I just am afraid of fucking it up. You know, burning it and the like. Or undercooking it or whatever all the fuss about salmonella's about. Pretty much just afraid of making it taste bad and feeling like a doofus having wasted my money purchasing it. Also, I kind of feel like meat is a weird thing to make for one. It takes a lot of prep and you put all that work in and then it's just like... meat. For one. I am maybe not doing it justice how weird it is but if you're a One, you probably know what I mean. Weird.

In comes the crockpot.  I know what you're thinking. Crockpots are for old people. They are a relic of a bygone era, like fondue pots and crocheted potholders. I totally hear you, but actually? They are god's gift to the single lady who is afraid of cooking meat, but is hungry, and goddamit, sometimes she needs more protein than a Luna bar dunked in Greek yogurt can offer.

If you don't own a crockpot, go out and buy one right now. This post will still be here when you get back. Also, will still be too long when you get back, so maybe do yourself a favor and take a real quick crockpot shopping trip vacay now, re-work up your appetite for inanity, and then read the rest when you come home.

If you were thinking of waiting for your wedding registry to get one, may I just suggest not? I understand. Being in your twenties, domestic life is all about weighing the pros and cons of what kitchenry to buy now and what you can wait 5 or 10 or... heaven help me, 30 years to get because it is too expensive, too specific, too large for your tiny single person kitchen. Stand mixers, maybe like mandolins (but I totally own a mandolin), and lord knows, fine china, all belong squarely in this category.

But crockpots? Crockpots are like 25 dollars. Yes, there are super fancy ones that cost like $100, but honestly? Crockpots are SUPER SIMPLE technology. The difference between a $25 one and a $100 one is maybe one additional temperature setting and some fancy handle-holding funny business. This is not the Cuisinart stand mixer (swoon.) This is basically a glorified warming tub. Just buy it now.

Cool, so you have your crockpot. Me too. We're adults.

I like to assemble my ingredients all together first. I don't have a lot of cupboard space, so mostly that consists of me going grocery shopping and then just like... leaving out whatever I will use to cook that weekend. I would call this a perk of living alone, but I think we can all see through that euphemism. It is, at best, a silver lining of living alone and having not a single other person care about what food items (wrapped of course, I'm not a monster) are lying around random places in the kitchen instead of being put away like a grown up. Also, they do make for a happy little ingredient collection posing for a family portrait.

Now's as good a time as any to actually provide the recipe for these shenanigans. I didn't come up with it. It came via Pinterest from this person's recipe here: http://dainty-chef.com/2011/12/crockpot-chicken-enchilada-soup.html

My cooking expertise stems directly from my ability to read. I also have been known to add random things on a whim. I wouldn't call that expertise, so much as (the only) embodiment of my devil-may-care attitude. You see that can of green beans lurking in the background behind the crockpot? Those almost made themselves useful in this recipe. Ultimately, I forgot. But, oh, the possibilities. Right, the list.


Ingredients:
3 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons flour
½ cup chicken broth
2 cups milk
1 can (15 ounce) black beans, rinsed and drained
1 can (14.5 ounce) Rotel diced tomatoes and jalapenos
1 package (10 ounce) frozen corn
½ cup onion, chopped
½ cup bell pepper, diced
1 can (10 ounce) Enchilada sauce
2 whole chicken breasts
1 cup shredded Monterrey Jack cheese


Speaking of things I forgot, I did put the frozen items purchased for this recipe in the freezer (well, actually, I accidentally put the unused chicken in the fridge. But that was just a small mix-up and does not affect this recipe. I will die from that maybe-compromised chicken later.) and because they were not in plain sight the entire time, I could have easily forgotten them. Lo and behold, I remembered. Here's the photographic proof.

This is roasted corn. See? You're literate too!

Also, sidenote: That nail color is OPI "A Good Man-darin is Hard to Find". Which, in addition to being just too damn true, OPI, is also part of a recent geographically-themed collection, that I think was probably called Oriental Nights or some such racist-adjacent nonsense like that. OPI always toes the line with their collection names. Don't get me wrong, I live for the punnery of it all. But still. Sort of bold.

And a note on ingredients. This recipe has become a Crockpot Season standby because all of the ingredients can be found within like eight feet of each other at Trader Joe's. As long as you remember the onion and bell pepper while you're in the produce section, the rest of it is found in the canned good hodge podge aisle, that I think is organized primarily around the common theme of: "Things in jars... or cans... or containers with twist-off caps" because in addition to sauces and beans and jarred red peppers (in case you maybe forgot the fresh one in the produce section because small children were busy being adorably useless and space-takey with their tiny precious "Customer-in-Training" shopping carts), this aisle also features vitamins and like, laundry detergent. I honestly don't understand Trader Joe's sometimes, but I do always love it. Oh right, and the frozen corn is in the frozen section that also randomly features cookies and seaweed snacks. BUT! I think you could use canned corn and be fine. Whatever. I also like this recipe because if you forgot something, it's really like, not the end of the world.

Okay, so you have gathered your onion from Produce; your frozen corn from Frozen, your black beans, enchilada sauce, jarred red peppers, chicken stock, and almond milk (you can use regular milk, but if you're reading this, you're likely a lady in your late 20s and you're lactose intolerant like the rest of us) from Things in Jars... or Cans... or Containers; and you're ready to go.

If you happen to have cheese and avocados around because you're that pulled together, go for it, but I pack this soup for lunch and my coworkers give me funny looks when I get too precious about composing my meals. Sprinkling cheese, or avocado, or fresh cilantro would be adorable if you were entertaining. But also, if you're entertaining, I'd sort of wonder why you'd made soup. Don't you like your guests? Pull it together and make them a real meal.

Guys, I know. We haven't even started cooking yet. Okay, fine, whatever, let's.

So, the beauty of crockpots (among many) is that for the most part, they allow for fairly passive cooking. If you have time to wait for your meal, or have the foresight to plan 3-8 hours ahead for your evening meal, OR you - like me - are nerdy and single enough to pack your lunches for the entire week on Sunday because really, it's still cold out and there's baseball on and what else are you going to do with your Sunday? I will tell you honestly that this recipe has a little more active time than most, but it's like ten minutes and then you get to sit down for like four hours while the crockpot does the heavy lifting, so honestly, quit whining about it and just do the roux already.

That's right. There's a roux. Oh, you don't know how to make a roux? Well, I'm so glad you're here, because I do. And right there, that should be your indication that apart from being French-worded and therefore inherently scary-seeming in the culinary world, roux are easy (what is the plural of roux? I'm assuming it is also roux, but if it's not, just let me be, because you clearly knew what I meant).

Okay, so you melt some butter in a saucepan. Low-ish heat. I don't know why, but mostly because I think that takes some of the pressure off so you can get your shit together for a minute before you have to start doing stuff with it.

Now it's melted and you add your flour. Whisk it so it doesn't get clumpy. Let it bubble. Turn off the heat.

In the recipe, it says to actually remove from heat. I don't like coddling my food like that, so I didn't. It's probably not a roux anymore because of it. I probably broke the Roux Rules. It's fine. The soup still turns out. I promise (BUT WHEN?!?! you ask. Soon. Not like in the next five paragraphs or anything, but soon.)

Add in a bit of your milk, like a half a cup. You don't need to measure it, I don't think it's that important. But if you're into that sort of thing, do that. Stir it up. Again, avoiding clumps. Clumps are bad and generally speaking, the enemy of all cooking. Rarely do you find recipes that actively encourage clumping. Sometimes, like in the case of those horror-show health cookies, clumping is unavoidable, but like. Not here. De-clump and move on.

Add in the enchilada sauce and then the rest of the milk, which if you're not great at quick basic math, is a cup and half. Also, with regards to math and living on the edge, the bottle of enchilada sauce that Saint TJ's sells is 12oz when clearly this recipe calls for only 10.

Now, friends, you are more than welcome to measure out 10 ounces from that bottle of 12. But seriously? I dare you to name one other thing in which you will use 2 ounces of pesky remaining enchilada sauce. Actually, I dare you to name one thing other than enchiladas and enchilada soup that even calls for enchilada sauce. Okay, smartass, you're not actually going to put enchilada sauce in your scrambled eggs, so just put that last two ounces in the roux and get to stirring.

Set that aside and leave it be for a minute and go handle your vegetables. The corn is easy - snip that bag and dump it right into the pot, frozen and everything.

Now the beans, the beans in this recipe need to be rinsed and drained, which is sort of obnox. I totally support you if you just dump the can in the pot, weird bean juice and all. However, I think I've set the cooking standard bar low enough that you may acknowledge that if I took the time to rinse and drain my beans, you probably could too. I didn't use any sort of fancy draining technology if that helps. Whatever, your choice.

Now for cutting. As with many things, I really like cutting, but am exceptionally bad at it. I have zero technique and terrible instruments and if you've ever seen Top Chef, you know right there, that is a recipe for some really shitty knife work. I wouldn't even call what I do "knife work". It's essentially Advanced Kindergarten for the Kitchen. And even then, the Advanced is generous. I took a picture of the onion to show you.

So bad. So ugly. Despite numerous YouTube tutorials, I clearly do not understand the fundamentals of cutting onions. But? Those ugly, not-even-sure-we-can-call-it-chopped onions will soon be partying with the other veggies in the crockpot and no one will even notice how uneven and halfassed they look. The crockpot takes all sorts. It is the liberal arts college of the kitchen.

You also cut up the bell peppers. Here, I was glad for my last minute switch to jarred red peppers because, for all their satisfying sounds made while cutting, actually, I don't like dealing with the seeds of fresh red peppers. So see? We Pollyanna'd that produce punt real good.

Okay, so all of that goes in the pot. Maybe you add more things, whatever floats your boat, maybe you just stick with what's there because DEAR GOD DOES THIS POST NEVER END.

Cool. So, produce in. Now you grab your (hope you remembered to defrost it the night before like a grownup) chicken and plop that on top. I'd be remiss if I did not make some sort of mention here about all the times you should be washing your hands during this recipe, because even though I do think that the cashiers at my local non-TJs supermarket are a little overdramatic with how much like bioterrorism they treat frozen chicken when they bag it, touching raw chicken is sort of icky. You'd want to wash your hands anyway. And bonus? You should.

So, you've plopped your chicken and then washed your hands real quick. If you have dried cilantro hanging around and have no earthly idea what other recipe will ever call for not-fresh cilantro and you're dying to use it up wherever even remotely possible, go ahead and dash some of that on. Can't hurt. Unless you're one of Those People that don't like cilantro. Then don't. But also, don't bitch about it. No one cares.

The chicken's on. You washed your hand. Jesus, with these recaps of the recaps, this is basically a Real Housewives episode. Okay, chicken, hands, cilantro, hands again because you used your hand for the cilantro and now it's on everything. AND THEN. You dump that roux (probably no longer a roux. Maybe never a roux. It's time to tell you that I may not know what a roux is.) all over the everything else.

Okay, so maybe the clumps came back and honestly, it doesn't look that impressive (yet?) but give yourself a hand. YOU CROCKPOTTED! Did you call your parents yet? You should.Your mom's proud. Your dad's proud too, but he just doesn't know how to tell you.

So, good. Plug that baby in and now you have a choice to make. Ugh, gross, I know. But actually, this one's pretty easy. If you've got some time and really want to lean into the whole slow cooking portion of this Sunday, put it on Low and set your phone alarm for 6-8 hours from now. Oh right, you're bad at basic math. Set a timer for 6-8 hours.

If you're just bumming around writing (or dear god, sincerest apologies, READING) a really sort of silly long blog post about your crockpot day and probably should get on with your life sooner rather than later, put that puppy on High for 3-4 hours. Adjust your alarm math as necessary. Or fall back on the timer setting. Chump.

What can you do with 3-8 hours? That's up to you, but when that alarm and/or (did you set both? Over-achiever.) timer rings, get your ass back into the kitchen and grab your tong and knife. Don't hold them in one hand, because, well, I get nervous. Be safe. Tong out  the chicken and put it on a chicken-only cutting board. I know it seems like I play fast and loose with salmonella, and that is indeed, a carefully cultivated image I've conjured up for you, but still. I do have a chicken-only cutting board and so should you.

At this point, due to the MAGIC OF CROCKPOTTERY, the chicken should be falling apart. You could actually just fork it apart instead of cutting. Like if you're afraid of knives or whatever. Or you only have one and it's still in the sink. Whatever reason, you could use a fork. Pull it apart. Isn't it cool how pull-aparty it is? CROCKPOT! And then you put it back in and voila! Soup!

Unplug your crockpot. Take the tank out (I don't think it's called a tank, but you know what  I mean, right? You don't? Okay, let me see... oh, right. Take the pot out. It's the pot part of the crockpot. POT.) and if you're packing it for lunch like a dweeb, let it cool before dishing into your five purchased-for-this-express-purpose pieces of Gladware.

If you're serving it to guests like honestly, sort of a crummy hostess (it's good, but it's not guest good, okay? Don't invite people over for soup is what I'm saying), dish it out right then, or leave it in the crockpot on the Warm setting to keep it, duh, warm until you are ready to serve it. If you're desperately trying to recover your hostess mojo, top it with shredded cheese, or avocado, or crumbled up tortilla chips, or maybe you were fancy and toasted up some actual tortillas and sliced them up. Whatever, make it pretty, serve it up, and move on with your life.

We're done here.

"Health" "Cookies"

If you've been scanning Pinterest lately, or I guess just like living in the world as a girl (probably. Maybe guys are facing this same pressure, I don't want to over-generalize, but like I kind of doubt you're being pimped health cookies at every turn like ladies are. Ooh! Spoiler alert: this post is about health cookies. Also, are you even on Pinterest? Probably not. Yep, we're still in parentheses.), you've surely seen one point five million recipes for alleged "health cookies".

If you ARE a guy, or have been living under a rock (which, ps, while fat free, has no nutrititional value), let me catch you up to speed: "health cookies" (and, yeah, I am going to keep putting that phrase in quotes because well, I'm dubious as to whether those two words can coexist like we're making them do) are cookie-shaped objects that share exactly zero ingredients with cookie-cookies. You know, the ones you WANT to eat.

There are sugar substitutes, butter replacements, egg impostors, and you can guaran-effing-tee, your entire daily allowance of protein. Because, you see, these "health cookies" are designed for the express purpose of tricking your body into thinking you have not only satisfied your pesky sweet tooth, but that you are full. Satiated. Happy. HEALTHY.

Anyway, you know where this is going. I made some "health cookies". I used the recipe that has been repinned approximately seventeen times on my Pinterest this week. One time by me. So like, I guess now's the time to come clean. I'm not actually anti-"health cookie". I just STRONGLY object to calling them cookies. I mean, they're circles(ish) (even less ish if you're me, because I seriously have no sense of baking aesthetics. Everything is just misshapen and horrible looking. And only occasionally redeemingly delicious.), and they're baked, and utilizing a very generous definition of "sweet", they are sweet. But. Let me tell you right now. Cast aside all previously held notions of cookies.

Okay. So, these "cookies". They have two official ingredients, both of whom are doing the lion's share of heavy lifting in the "health cookie" neighborhood these days: 1. Bananas 2. Steel cut oats.

If you just rolled your eyes when you read steel cut oats, join the effing club. I mean, they recently elected (smoked out? What actually happened in the Vatican?) a new Pope; were steel cut oats honestly not being considered for the job? Because people talk about them like they are the legit second coming.

I mean, they're FINE, but can we please just cool our jets about them, ladies (ahem, and gentlemen, if you happen to have been raving about steel cut oats lately. Which? Stop. That's lady talk.). Yes, they're healthy. We can all feel super good about ourselves when we eat them. Also, they're ostensibly more desirable than just like regular run-of-the-mill (mill!) oats, because of how they're steel cut which okay, don't even kid yourself, you don't know what that means.

So. You've got your bananas. And good news for me, this recipe is all about overripe bananas. Which is super if you have really good banana eating intentions but can never quite make yourself potassium up to the rate at which it would require to finish a whole bunch before they start to make your whole kitchen smell like a monkey's armpit (I assume). TWO bananas. In a bowl. Mash them up. Fun!

Mix in a cup of steel cut oats. Remember them? They're fancier than regular oats. Good. Just making sure you're paying attention.

AND THEN? You can add in WHATEVER you want. Which, real talk, is why I even agreed (with myself) to make these "health cookies" in the first place. So. In go the (very small, practically insignificant) handful of choco chips. And then a sprinkle of (non-organic, because get a grip) coconut. And if you're ambitious, a little bit of raisins or craisins, which a. I wasn't feeling ambitious, and b. those things aren't actually healthy, they are just sweet in a way that tricks your brain into thinking you're eating something sweet for just long enough to forget that you will never get to just enjoy something sweet because you're older than 11 and you're a girl (or a guy, but really, are you still reading?). <-- Sometimes I extra punctuate just in case you're not entirely certain whether the sentence is over.

A moment of pause to scan the page above and appreciate all that has so far been said about not-even cookies that have two - at most five! -  ingredients and we haven't even gotten to the unattractive glopping and baking of them. Prodigious, no?

So, you get all this stuff in there. Check that it's not "overly runny", which if you can read that instruction without your mind wandering to things that have no place in the kitchen, congratulations. You're an adult. Care for some steel cut oats, you boring old biddy?

Use a spoon. Probably a teaspoon, but honestly, just whatever. Plop them in little globs (actual measurements) on a baking sheet that has parchment paper on it because you're not a dummy who's still using butter or cooking spray for baking and having to wash your cookie sheet every time you get a hankering for a baked treat.

OH SHIT. Did you forget to preheat the oven?

Of course you did. Because you're not Martha Stewart and also, I didn't tell you that part yet. Okay, so that one's on me. Whatever, let's put it behind us and you just go crank that to 350 and have a seat for a minute. Go ahead and watch this weeks Parks and Rec. Shoot. What's that smell?

Yeah, it doesn't take 22 minutes for an oven to preheat, dumdum.

Okay. Stick them in. Set your phone timer to 15 minutes. Don't get excited. Remember, these are "health cookies". You didn't even lick the teaspoon you glopped them out with (maybe serving spoon. Maybe spork. Whatever was handy. You didn't lick it, because it was filled with banana and uncooked steel cut oats and no matter how mature you're acting this week, steel cut oats taste terrible uncooked.)

When your alarm rings, and you have completely forgotten why you even set it, the sweet sweet (but really, sort of fake sweet as far as cookies are concerned) smell of banana will be wafting your way and will hopefully remind you that yes, today is the day you were out of eggs and butter and everything good and decided to try "health cookies" and ugh, now they're done and oof, do you have to eat them or can you just bring them into work and finally put a nail in the coffin of how boring everyone's Paleo Carb Free Gluten Free Lactose Free Parisian Diet has become by making them eat health cookies for a week. Rhetorical question mark.

And, you'll note: no quotes that time. When you're pretending baked things you brought to the office are edible, you need to give the hard sell. Don't air quote "health cookie". Play up the steel cut oatsiness of them and let your judgey eyes remind people that bathing suit season is upon us all.

Meanwhile, I hope you packed some Twizzlers, because man oh man, these "cookies"? Sure do taste healthy.