My sister calls me at 9 p.m. in the middle of the week, and she's stressed because her boyfriend's parents are coming over for dinner. She promised them "homemade chicken pot pie like his mom makes," Now she's staring at a raw chicken and a bag of frozen peas like they're going to magically turn into dinner.
"Can you just tell me how to do this?" she's asking. "Like, step by step?"
I had to explain to her that making chicken pot pie takes more than an hour. She hung up on me. I think they ordered Chinese.
The Pot Pie Problem Nobody Talks About
Here's what drives me crazy about chicken pot pie: Everyone acts like it's this simple, cozy, grandma-makes-it-on-Sunday type of thing. And yeah, once it's done, it's perfect: golden crust, creamy filling, and vegetables that taste good for once.
But making it? That's a whole different situation.
Six years ago, I tried making pot pie for the first time. My husband had been dropping hints about how his mom used to make it every winter, and I got it in my head that I would surprise him. Bought a whole chicken because I thought that's what you're supposed to do. Spent two hours trying to figure out how to cut up a raw chicken (badly), boiled it into oblivion, and ended up with this dry, stringy meat situation in a sauce that tasted like flour paste.
The crust leaked all over the oven. The smoke detector went off. We ate cereal for dinner.
He was very sweet about it. Which somehow made it worse.
Why It Keeps Going Wrong
The thing about pot pie is that there are like seventeen steps where everything can fall apart. And most recipes gloss over them like you're supposed to already know.
Nobody tells you the bottom crust turns into soggy paste if your filling's too runny. Or that if it's too thick, you're eating chicken-flavored Play-Doh. There's this magical consistency you're aiming for that every recipe describes differently—"thick enough to coat the back of a spoon" or "like gravy but thicker" or my personal favorite, "you'll know it when you see it."
Super helpful. Thanks.
And the crust situation? Don't even get me started. I've tried making pie crust from scratch exactly three times. The first time, it was too dry and cracked everywhere. The second time, I added more water, and it turned into a sticky blob. The third time, I said some words I'm not proud of and went to Trader Joe's to buy the pre-made stuff.
My mom once saw the package in my trash. She looked at me like I'd personally disappointed every generation of women in our family.
I also learned that you can't just throw raw vegetables in there. They stay crunchy. Which would be fine in a stir fry, but in pot pie? You want everything soft and cozy. My first few attempts had carrots that could've broken a tooth.
The Technique That Really Worked
My friend Marcus gave me a pot pie chicken recipe that actually works. He used to work at a restaurant with a pot pie special on Thursdays. He told me the secret is to forget about doing everything "the right way" and focus on making it taste good.
Revolutionary, right?
First thing—rotisserie chicken from the grocery store. I know, I know. But look, we're not running a farmhouse kitchen here. The rotisserie chicken comes cooked and seasoned and costs $7. You shred it up and you're done. No boiling, dry meat, or wondering if it's cooked enough.
For the filling, you sauté your vegetables first—onions, carrots, celery—the usual suspects. Dice them small so they cook faster—maybe ten minutes until they're actually soft. Then you make a roux, which sounds fancy but is just butter and flour cooked together for about two minutes. It smells nutty when it's ready.
Pour in chicken broth and milk in about equal amounts, maybe three cups. The ratio isn't super precise. It'll thicken up as it simmers. Add your shredded chicken, some frozen peas (they cook fast, so they go in at the end), salt, pepper, maybe some thyme if you have it.
Here's the key part Marcus told me: Let it cool down before putting it in the crust—like it is significantly cool. The bottom gets soggy and weird if you put hot filling into a pie crust. I usually make the filling in the morning or the night before and stick it in the fridge. Problem solved.
For the crust, I've made peace with store-bought. The roll-out kind from the refrigerated section. It's $4. Nobody can tell the difference once it's baked. Put one crust on the bottom of a deep dish pie pan, pour in your cooled filling, and top with the second crust. Cut some slits in the top so steam can escape—I forgot this once, and the whole thing exploded in the oven. Well, not exploded. But there was filling everywhere.
Brush the top with an egg wash if you want it shiny. I usually skip this because I'm lazy and it tastes the same.
Now, bake the pot pie at 400°F for 35 minutes, until you see the filling seeping through the slits and the crust is light brown.
When Reality Doesn't Match Pinterest
Sometimes, the edges of my crust get too brown, and I have to cover them with foil halfway through. Sometimes, the filling is a little thicker or thinner than I wanted. Once, I forgot to add salt and had to pass the shaker around at dinner like we were eating in a cafeteria.
It's still good, though.
The thing is, pot pie doesn't have to be perfect to be comforting. It must be warm, creamy, and taste like someone cared enough to make dinner. My kids eat it without complaining, which basically never happens. My husband makes this happy sound when he takes the first bite.
And yeah, it takes about an hour start to finish if you're not making the filling ahead. But most of that is baking time, where you're not doing anything.
It's Still Okay to Skip It Sometimes
There are nights when I'm tired, and the thought of chopping vegetables makes me cry. On those nights, we have frozen pizza or breakfast for dinner or whatever's easy.
But when I do make pot pie—maybe once a month, usually on a Sunday when it's cold out—it feels worth it. The house smells amazing, everyone's in a good mood, and there are usually leftovers for lunch the next day.
My sister still hasn't attempted it. She says she'll try it "someday when she has time," which we both know means never. And that's fine. Not everything has to be homemade.
But if you want to try it, start with the rotisserie chicken. Don't stress about the crust; let the filling cool.
You'll figure out the rest as you go.