By We have been making bag meals from my kitchen. This is not a church program—the church is closed, there is no official channel for this yet, we are in the emergency weeks where the systems haven't caught up with the need—so it is just me, in my kitchen, with Calvin helping and Sister Agnes dropping off supplies when she can, and we are making fifty bag meals every Tuesday and leaving them outside the church door with a sign that says: Bernice's Table is still here. Come and take what you need.
I cook all day Monday and Tuesday morning. I fry chicken and wrap each piece individually in foil. I make individual containers of mac and cheese. I bake cornbread in small squares. I put sweet potato pie in small containers with foil lids. I bag it all in paper grocery bags—each bag a full meal, labeled with the contents—and I drive to the church and leave them stacked on a folding table outside the door with the sign. Calvin sits in the car and watches while I set them up, because he worries and I let him worry because it's how he shows up and I need him to show up. By the time we drive away there are already people approaching from the parking lot.
The world outside is strange. The streets are quieter than I have ever seen them, a quality of quiet that is not peaceful but suspended, the quiet of something held in abeyance. I drive home through the quiet streets and the car smells like fried chicken and I think about the fifty people and the bag meals and the folding table outside the locked church door and I think: Bernice, the table is still here. The table is always here. You taught me this. You taught me the table doesn't require a building. It requires hands and food and the intention to feed. Hands, food, intention. I have all three. The table is here.
The chicken I fry for the bag meals is straightforward — it has to be, when you’re making fifty portions on a Monday — but on the weeks when Calvin is feeling well enough to sit at the table with me for dinner, I make this apricot honey chicken instead, because it is the version that is just for us, the version that reminds me that feeding people you love and feeding strangers in a parking lot come from the same place inside you. The glaze is sweet and a little sticky and it smells like something you want to come home to, which is exactly what I need at the end of a Tuesday when I have driven home through those suspended, quiet streets with an empty car and a heart full of the fifty people who came to the table.
Apricot Honey Chicken
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 45 minutes | Total Time: 55 minutes | Servings: 4
Ingredients
- 4 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs (about 2 lbs)
- 1/2 cup apricot preserves
- 3 tablespoons honey
- 2 tablespoons soy sauce
- 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
- 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1 tablespoon olive oil
Instructions
- Preheat oven. Heat oven to 375°F. Lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking dish with olive oil.
- Make the glaze. In a small saucepan over medium-low heat, combine apricot preserves, honey, soy sauce, Dijon mustard, garlic, and ground ginger. Stir until the preserves melt and the glaze is smooth, about 3 minutes. Remove from heat.
- Season the chicken. Pat chicken thighs dry with paper towels. Season both sides with salt and black pepper and place skin-side up in the prepared baking dish.
- Glaze and bake. Spoon half the apricot honey glaze evenly over the chicken. Bake uncovered for 25 minutes.
- Glaze again. Remove the dish from the oven and spoon the remaining glaze over the chicken. Return to the oven and bake for another 18–20 minutes, until the skin is caramelized and the internal temperature reaches 165°F.
- Rest and serve. Let the chicken rest for 5 minutes before serving. Spoon any pan juices over the top. Serve with rice or cornbread to catch the extra glaze.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 380 | Protein: 28g | Fat: 14g | Carbs: 34g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 520mg