The Recipe Between Friday and Sunday
My Grandma’s Greek Chicken & Potatoes, Holy Saturday stillness, and the sacredness of waiting.
I cooked it last night, Babs’ very first recipe ever posted online, the one tucked into her new cookbook like a love letter from her grandmother, My Grandma’s Greek Chicken & Potatoes.
The kitchen smelled like lemon and garlic and something older than both; like memory, like tradition, like comfort passed from one woman’s hands to another’s.
I roasted it in my oven while the sun slipped down over the water. The windows were open, letting in a breeze that made the whole house feel like it was exhaling. The chicken browned and crisped in the pan, while the potatoes softened in the broth and citrus and herbs. It didn’t feel like just a meal, it felt like a moment. A hush. A holy kind of hunger being met.
And this morning, I woke up to Holy Saturday. That strange day in between.
The grief of Good Friday still heavy in my chest, the joy of Easter not quite here. A day that’s often skipped over in our rush to resurrection. But I couldn’t shake the stillness.
This dish; hearty, humble, handed down felt like the perfect way to hold the weight of waiting. The pause between pain and promise. The kind of meal that doesn’t ask for much: just time, patience, and trust that the oven will do its quiet, unseen work.
Isn’t that what waiting is? Trusting the slow and hidden heat to transform things?
Next time I make it, I’ll place the marinade ingredients into a mason jar. Shake and divide it into three parts: one to pour over the chicken before it goes into the fridge for a few hours, one to toss with the potatoes right before cooking, and one to reserve for those final, flavorful minutes in the oven. Just a little kitchen note for myself, scribbled down in the margin of this memory.
And if I’m honest, I’m not the biggest fan of bone-in chicken thighs. So I’m thinking about trying it again with halved chicken breasts, nestled in among the potatoes and lemon slices. I’ll miss the golden skin, maybe. But I’ll love it more my way, and that feels like its own kind of grace.
We don’t know much about what happened on that Saturday so long ago. Scripture is mostly silent. And yet I wonder, what kind of faith does it take to hold still, to sit in the unknowing, to believe that even in the dark, something good is coming?
Maybe that’s what this meal taught me.
That some of the best things in life happen in the waiting.
That love tastes like lemon and olive oil and oregano, soaked into potatoes.
That a grandmother’s recipe, passed down through generations, can feed both body and soul.
So today, I’m not rushing toward Easter.
I’m sitting in the sacred middle.
With leftovers in the fridge.
And a God who still shows up in the quiet.
Recipe
My Grandmother’s Greek Chicken and Potatoes from Every Day with Babs page 218.
I hope this space inspires you to gather, savor, and enjoy good food with the people you love. See you at the table!
Gracefully yours,
Food, faith & a little chaos—where spills happen, laughter is required, and grace is always on the menu. Let’s connect — visit my bio site. Affiliate links may be included, thanks for supporting my work (and my coffee habit).
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