Crunchy Onion Barbecue Chicken

Clay's one-year sobriety. December 19, 2020. One year since the VA intake. Three hundred and sixty-five days of choosing the kitchen over the garage, the stove over the bottle, the wooden spoon over the lawn chair in the dark. I made ribs. The not-celebration. The ribs that speak the language that Hensley mouths can't. Five hours of smoke, the rub applied by hands that have learned from Betty and taught Clay and will teach a grandchild, the ribs pulled when the bark is right and the meat gives way and the bone slides clean.

Clay ate four ribs. He ate them on the back porch in December cold because the porch is where he used to drink and the porch is now where he eats ribs and the reclamation of the porch from a drinking place to an eating place is a victory that won't be written on any scoreboard but is as real as any touchdown he ever scored. The porch is his. The porch is food now. The porch is ribs and ginger ale and the December air and a twenty-year-old man who is one year sober and eating with his hands and the sauce is on his chin and his mother is watching from the kitchen window and his father is sitting beside him and nobody is saying what the ribs are saying because the ribs are saying it perfectly.

I didn't say "Congratulations." I didn't say "One year." I said "These ribs are good." He said "They're always good, Dad." That's the conversation. That's the whole conversation. The ribs are good. They're always good. He's good. He's always going to be good. The ribs say so.

Connie came out with a blanket and wrapped it around Clay's shoulders because it was forty degrees and he was in a t-shirt and eating ribs and she's his mother and mothers bring blankets. She sat on the other side and the three of us sat on the porch with ribs and a blanket and the December night and the year that was and the year that's coming and the baby that's coming and the recipes that are coming and the life that is, against every odds and every garage floor and every IED, continuing. Continuing. The word that matters more than any other word. Continuing.

The ribs are the real recipe — five hours of smoke and bark and a rub passed down through hands — but I know most people don’t have a smoker sitting on the back porch, and what I really want to give you is the feeling: that sticky, saucy, eat-it-with-your-hands thing that makes a porch in December feel like the warmest place on earth. This Crunchy Onion Barbecue Chicken gets you there. It has the sauce, it has the mess on your chin, it has the kind of flavor that fills a silence the right way — and on a night when the only words that needed saying were “these are good,” that’s everything.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 30 minutes | Total Time: 40 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (about 6 oz each)
3/4 cup barbecue sauce, divided
1 1/2 cups French fried onions, coarsely crushed
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon salt
Cooking spray

Instructions

Preheat oven. Heat oven to 400°F. Line a rimmed baking sheet with foil and coat lightly with cooking spray.
Season the chicken. Pat chicken breasts dry with paper towels. Season both sides with garlic powder, smoked paprika, salt, and pepper.
Coat in sauce. Brush each chicken breast generously with barbecue sauce (about 1 tablespoon per side), reserving 1/4 cup sauce for serving.
Press on the crust. Spread crushed French fried onions in a shallow dish. Press each sauced chicken breast firmly into the onions on both sides so the crust adheres well.
Bake. Arrange coated chicken on the prepared baking sheet. Bake 25–30 minutes, until the crust is deep golden and an instant-read thermometer inserted in the thickest part reads 165°F. Do not flip — the bottom crust will crisp against the foil.
Rest and serve. Let chicken rest 5 minutes before serving. Pass the reserved barbecue sauce alongside for dipping — and don’t bother with a fork.

Nutrition (per serving)

Crunchy Onion Barbecue Chicken — The Sauce Says What Words Can’t