Do Tell? It's Chicken Rotel

Do Tell? It's Chicken Rotel

As is often the case, a recent family discussion turned to the topic of food.

My brother Andy and I visited with our mom at the hospital during one of her chemo treatments, and even though her appetite had gone the way of the evening sun, we found ourselves considering favorite foods we hadn't had in a while. Not surprisingly, most everything mentioned was from Mom's repertoire of home cooked fare.

"I like coconut custard pie," I said, wistfully.

The nurse arrived to administer Mom's next round of drugs.

"Now, these three medications will make you sleepy, so get ready for a big nap," she advised. Andy and I halfway listened, engrossed in our digestive indulgences.

"Nope, coconut cream," my brother disagreed. We studied Mom's face for signs of slumber. She was wide-awake, eating ice chips.

"I like coconut cream, too," said Mom. "But these days, nothing sounds good." The metallic taste from her treatment had altered her taste buds. Andy and I seemed to have discovered enhanced ones. Talking about food might have been insensitive, but Mom seemed interested enough to stay awake.

"Coconut cream is good, but I think I like the custard better," I said. "Ooo, what's that casserole with the corn tortillas and chicken?" I asked.

"You mean Chicken Rolet?" Andy offered.

"It's the one with green chilies, I think, and it's spicy and has bits of tomato?"

We glanced at Mom, thinking by now she would have slipped off with the Sand Man.

"No, that's King's Ranch Chicken," she corrected. "It has cream of chicken soup and Rotel tomatoes."

"Yep, that's it! Too bad you can't get that in the drive-thru." My brother wrinkled his brow, squinting in deep thought.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Chicken Rolet has Rotel tomatoes. Are you sure that's not the casserole you're thinking of?"

Now, plenty of things confuse me. But not the casseroles I ate for years and years, 95% of which featured some shape, form or fashion of chicken and cream of something soup.

"No, I know it wasn't Chicken Rolet. That has spaghetti noodles in it. And English peas. And I don't like it. No offense, Mom."

The nurse returned to gauge Mom's vitals.

"Good grief, you haven't gone to sleep?" she asked. "I don't know anybody who isn't knocked out after getting that round of drugs." Mom closed her eyes, but only briefly.

"You don't like it?" Mom asked, incredulous. "I didn't know that!"

"I LOVE Chicken Rolet," my brother chirped, like a good boy.

"Well, it's OK," I said, rolling my eyes. "But I wonder why they call it Chicken Rolet?"

"Maybe 'Rolet' is French for something," Andy said.

"Well, 'poulet' means chicken, doesn't it?" My mom stirred, her eyes sagging a little while I tried to conjure high school French.

"You know, they really should have called it Chicken Rotel," he said. "Heyyyyy, wait a minute…"

Two light bulbs went off above our thick skulls. My mom groaned, but not from anything the nurse was doing.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she howled, rolling her eyes. "It IS 'Chicken Rotel.' There's nothing French about it. Whoever gave me that recipe copied it down wrong. It's Chicken Rotel, not Rolet."

In that moment, I realized that a Long family tradition had gained notoriety under a false identity. There was no such thing as Chicken Rolet. For decades, we had cooked and eaten and carried Chicken Rolet to the sick and bereaved. It was Chicken Rolet that sat frozen in my parents' deep freezer, lovingly prepared by Andy's wife, Mandy.

All my life, I had hated Chicken Rolet. Now I knew why. It was all a faux-French farce, a calorie-dense casserole imposter. We laughed out loud at how obvious the transposed letters should have been.

"It'll never taste the same," Andy said, with a sigh.

"Good riddance," I replied.

Mom just shook her head, obviously disturbed.

We turned our discussion to more important matters, the fact that our stomachs were complaining loudly. We sought satisfaction in an outstanding Seattle Drip frappe, which in French means, "blended iced coffee, hold the Rotel tomatoes."