Chicken Manicotti

Hannah Rose Feldman was born on Thursday, February 25th, at nine forty-seven in the morning, weighing seven pounds even, and I drove to White Plains with the car packed with soup and challah and rugelach and brisket and I walked into the house and Jennifer put the baby in my arms and I held a grandchild for the first time in eleven months. Eleven months. Eleven months of porch drops and car windows and Zoom rectangles and the ache, the specific unbearable ache of a grandmother who cannot hold the people she was built to hold, and now — now — the baby was in my arms, warm and new and seven pounds of absolute evidence that the world is still making people, still producing miracles, still giving me reasons to stand at the stove and cook.

I held Hannah and I cried. Not gently. Not the quiet tears of a composed woman. I cried the way you cry when something that was broken has been repaired, when a drought has ended, when the rain finally comes. Ethan, seven, said, "Bubbe, why are you crying?" I said, "Because I'm happy." He said, "You cry when you're happy?" I said, "Always." Sophie, four, said, "Can I hold her?" Jennifer said, "Be very gentle." Sophie was very gentle. Noah, almost two, looked at the baby with the deep suspicion of a child who has just been replaced as the youngest and who is not yet sure how he feels about it. He will adjust. We all adjust.

I stayed for three hours. I held Hannah. I fed Ethan lunch. I washed dishes. I did the things a grandmother does when she has been locked out of the house for eleven months and is finally allowed back in: I made myself useful. I made myself indispensable. I made myself the person who holds the baby while the mother sleeps and the father works and the older children need attention. I am the reinforcements. I have arrived. The soup is in the freezer. The rugelach is on the counter. The baby is in my arms. The chain has a new link. Her name is Hannah. She weighs seven pounds. She is mine.

I have always cooked the way some people pray — with my hands, at the stove, for the people I cannot stop loving. When I packed the car that Thursday morning, the soup and the rugelach were the things I reached for first, because soup says I was thinking of you before you even asked, and rugelach says I stayed up late and I didn’t mind. But this Chicken Manicotti — this is the dish I leave behind. It goes in the freezer, it reheats on a Tuesday when Jennifer is exhausted and Ethan needs dinner and Hannah needs to be held, and nobody has to think about it because Bubbe already did. That’s the whole point. That’s always been the whole point.

Prep Time: 25 minutes | Cook Time: 50 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 15 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

12 manicotti shells
2 cups cooked chicken, finely shredded
1 container (15 oz) ricotta cheese
2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese, divided
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese, divided
1 large egg, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon dried Italian seasoning
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1 jar (24 oz) marinara sauce, divided
1/2 cup water
Fresh parsley, chopped, for garnish

Instructions

Preheat oven. Heat oven to 375°F. Lightly grease a 9x13-inch baking dish and spread 1 cup of the marinara sauce evenly across the bottom.
Cook the shells. Boil manicotti shells according to package directions until just al dente. Drain carefully and lay flat on a lightly oiled baking sheet to prevent sticking while you prepare the filling.
Make the filling. In a large bowl, combine the shredded chicken, ricotta, 1 cup of the mozzarella, 1/4 cup of the Parmesan, the beaten egg, garlic powder, Italian seasoning, salt, and pepper. Stir until well combined.
Fill the shells. Using a small spoon or a piping bag, carefully fill each manicotti shell with the chicken and cheese mixture. Nestle the filled shells in a single layer over the sauce in the prepared baking dish.
Add sauce and liquid. Stir the water into the remaining marinara sauce and pour evenly over the filled shells, making sure all the pasta is covered to prevent drying out during baking.
Top with cheese. Sprinkle the remaining 1 cup of mozzarella and the remaining 1/4 cup of Parmesan evenly over the top.
Bake covered. Cover the dish tightly with aluminum foil and bake for 35 minutes.
Bake uncovered. Remove the foil and bake an additional 15 minutes, or until the cheese is bubbly and lightly golden and the sauce is thickened around the edges.
Rest and serve. Let the manicotti rest for 5 minutes before serving. Garnish with fresh chopped parsley. Serve with crusty bread and a simple green salad.

Nutrition (per serving)

Chicken Manicotti — The Dish I Made When I Finally Got to Hold Her