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Bacon, mushroom-stuffed chicken breasts

Perfect for a weeknight meal, whip these chicken breasts up in about 45 minutes, with a veggie on the side, and maybe mashed potatoes to smother in the sour cream-mushroom sauce.

By The Gourmand Mom / January 17, 2013

These stuffed chicken breasts were inspired by bacon-stuffed mushrooms. Be sure to use a meat thermometer when cooking stuffed meats.

The Gourmand Mom

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One evening, when my sisters and I were young, my parents left us eating our dinner at the kitchen table. My father was in the swimming pool, cleaning it from the inside with one of those large nets for fishing out fallen leaves. My mother was standing outside the pool, chatting with him as he worked. And we, my two younger sisters and I, were calmly enjoying our dinner. Calmly, that is, until our youngest sister dug her fingers into either side of the stick of butter which sat on the table, grabbing handfuls of butter in each hand, which she then proceeded to eat. Straight up mouthfuls of cold butter.

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The Gourmand Mom

Amy Deline is a stay at home mom to three little boys. She’s a former early childhood educator with a lifelong passion for home-cooking. Amy is the author and photographer behind The Gourmand Mom, a blog which celebrates food through simple and perfectly seasonal recipes, fit for a gourmet feast among friends or a relaxed family dinner.

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My sister and I were appalled … the fingers in the communal food … the ingesting of pure milk fat. We were certain that our parents would want to be informed of this major dining transgression. If they’d taken away my sister’s knife privileges after she’d licked a butter knife, they would almost certainly take butter away from our youngest sis. Right?? And like many young siblings, we smugly delighted in the prospect of the other’s consequences for poor choices.

So, my sister and I go running outside, shouting, “Mommy, mommy, mommy,” who was in the middle of a conversation with our father and promptly shooed us away. “But, Mommy…” we persisted, confident in the righteousness of our interruption. She again directed us back to our dinners. So we just shouted it, “She’s dug her fingers into the butter.” We enthusiastically demonstrated, with an Oscar worthy tattle-telling performance. “And she’s eating it.”

Our mother ended her conversation mid-sentence and quickly moved into the kitchen to deal with our sister and her butter-slathered fingers. I can’t remember if she lost her butter privileges or not. What I do remember is our mother’s immediate shift from being inconvenienced by our interruption to urgently dealing with the incident at hand. We’d proven our cause to be worthy of interrupting.

I had a parenting butter incident of my very own a few days ago. I had been trying to prepare dinner and the boys were in rare form; wildly running around the kitchen, stealing components of their dinner from their plates before I’d finished, and engaging in all manners of daredevil mischief which further diminished the odds that I’d ever complete dinner. I shooed them all into the living room, “Go watch TV. Leave me alone for a minute so I can get dinner on the table.”

Liam and Lucas reluctantly complied. James stuck around in the kitchen going about his normal business of pushing chairs around to access countertop supplies and opening the fridge in search of his beloved apple slices. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, standing in the light of the open fridge doors, chanting “Apple, apple, apple, apple…” I went about the dinner preparations, with my back turned to him. He became quiet and I’d assumed he’d temporarily given up his quest for precious apples.

And then Lucas comes into the kitchen, whining “Mommy, mommy, mommy…” I shooed him away in the same manner my mother had shooed me away at the pool. “But, Mommy…” he continued. I was becoming annoyed. I sent him away. He persisted, “But Gooba (our pet name for the baby) is eating bacon.”

I spun around, with the same swift shift of my mother at the pool. And sure enough, the baby was standing there with two handfuls of cooked bacon, which had been sitting on a plate in the fridge, happily snacking on his discovered fridge treasure. I let him eat the bacon. It’s bacon, after all, and I’m not some kind of monster who steals bacon from babies. He was a smart baby to recognize the value of his find.

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