Chicken Casserole with Dumplings

The rain started at four and hadn't stopped. The kitchen window had gone grey. I stood at the hob with a glass of cider and the last of the parsnips from the market, and it occurred to me that this was a dumplings evening. You know the ones. The evenings that call for something heavy and kind, brought to the table in the pot it was cooked in.

A chicken casserole with dumplings is not a dish that asks you to be clever. It asks you to be patient. To brown the meat properly, to let the onions go soft and sweet, to leave the pot alone while it does its quiet work. The dumplings go on top for the last twenty minutes, and they puff and swell in the steam until they're pillowy on top and soaked with sauce underneath. The first time someone cuts into one and the inside is light and cloud-like, you'll understand why this dish has survived every food fashion going.

I think this is the most democratic dish in Britain. It doesn't care about your kitchen or your budget. It cares about the evening: cold outside, warm in, someone to feed. We're only making dinner. But sometimes dinner is the whole point.

I wrote it down in the notebook last winter: chicken, dumplings, Tuesday, rain. It didn't need more than that.