by Shirley Bahlmann
I never would have dreamed it up myself. When I went to speak at a dinner the other night, we were served a nice, toasty brown square that smelled like, well, chicken. When I bit into it, it was chicken, with a creamy soft topping inside a melty tender croissant dough. Yeah, it was worthy of seconds.
One of the ladies at the table said it was chicken something-that-started-with-a-"p." I tried Chicken Panini, Chicken Parmesan (but there was no Parmesan flavor. It still sounded exotic.) Chicken Patchouli.
Then the mystery was solved when a lady came out with seconds. "What are these called?" I asked.
"Chicken Pillows," she answered.
I nearly choked on my parsley sprig. Chicken Pillows? At first I imagined a coop full of chickens hunting everywhere for their little pillows so they could go to sleep. Then I realized the chickens were IN the pillows. Hm. I suppose Heavenly eternal rest works, too.
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