I may get into hot water for saying this, but I've never thought of my mother as a great cook. Don't get me wrong—she's good at a lot of things. For most of my life, my mother has been the sole person clothing me, taking me to school and making sure I had a roof over my head. However, when I think of the people I regularly go to for recipes, my mom doesn't usually stand out as a contender. That said, when I was thinking of recipes that I've gleaned from other people—recipes that I return to again and again—one particular meal came to mind: Mom's chicken Romano.
Growing up, chicken Romano made an appearance at many celebratory dinners. When Mom would inevitably ask what I wanted her to cook for any occasion, I would always respond the same way: "What do you want for your birthday dinner?" "Chicken Romano." "What should I cook for your graduation?" "Chicken Romano." "What do you want me to make when you come home for Christmas?" "Chicken Romano."
Admittedly, I began requesting this dish out of necessity. When I considered all of the dishes my mom had prepared, chicken Romano was the only one I found even remotely deserving of an encore. However, over time, that meal became a non-verbal exchange between my mom and me. It was her way of telling me she was proud of me, that she was happy I was home, that she knew exactly what I wanted. And, for me, it was my way of agreeing, my way of saying, "You're my mom and you always remember what I like."
Truthfully, most of my memories as a child revolve around eating, cooking or watching someone prepare a meal. As a result, I can punctuate periods of my life by remembering meals that have been prepared for me by people that I love: Pap's deer patties with mayonnaise, Grandma Aquiline's fried pork chops ( which she continued to make—one-handed—after her stroke ) , Pearlie's cornbread stuffing, Barb's almond cookies, Priti's cereal chevdo, Dad's "sauce," and, of course, Mom's chicken Romano. When these meals are made for me, and when I ask for the recipes and make them for myself, it is a way of honoring a memory. These recipes are great for what they make, but better because of who first made them for me.
My mom's Chicken Romano was the first I'd ever eaten; I've since eaten it at a lot of restaurants. And, not surprisingly, none of the variations I've tried resemble my mom's. Though you could chalk it up to her culinary ingenuity, I'm sure that it is a result of her making things up as she went along. She probably never had the recipe right in the first place. Of course, that's what makes this meal hers. It doesn't get as crisp as others I've tried and the batter is suspiciously eggy, but, to me, it's delicious.
When I make this meal for myself, I remember exactly whose recipe it really is. I also remember to tell her—even if I'm lying—that, "It's good, but it's not nearly as good as yours."
Mom's Chicken Romano:
1 lb. chicken cutlets ( or breasts, pounded thinly )
3 eggs
2 cups grated parmesan cheese ( don't use the stuff in the green can )
1 cup flour
1/3 cup dry white wine
1 lemon—zested
2 tbsp chopped parsley
salt & pepper
olive oil
1. Salt and pepper the chicken. Set aside.
2. Beat together eggs, wine and the juice of 1 lemon.
3. Stir in parmesan cheese, lemon zest, parsley and a little extra pepper.
4. Put enough oil in a pan to cover the bottom and heat over medium heat.
5. Dredge each chicken breast in the flour and dust off any excess.
6. Liberally coat the chicken with the batter.
7. Saute chicken in the oil for approximately 4 minutes on each side. Once you put it in the pan, do not move it until you start to see a golden crust around the edges. Also, don't over-crowd your pan. Cook in batches and keep warm in the oven.
8. Remove from pan when the coating is golden brown and the chicken feels firm in the middle.
9. Garnish with additional chopped parsley and—most importantly—lots of extra lemon. Squeeze lemon juice on the cooked chicken pieces before serving. It makes three to four servings.
This dish is great served alongside some lightly dressed pasta or placed atop a bed of arugula.
