From the Chef’s Writing Desk

In our house, Chicken Piccata has not been called Chicken Piccata for many years.

It is simply known as:
“Chicken Lemon and Capers.”

This is because when George was little, the word piccata sounded suspiciously fancy to him. Like something served on a tiny plate by a man named Sebastian wearing cufflinks.

But “Chicken Lemon and Capers”?

Now that sounded trustworthy.

Like a dish a pirate might eat while recovering from scurvy.

The name stuck.

And honestly, I prefer it.

There’s something wonderfully chaotic about the whole meal. The lemons alone make the kitchen smell like sunlight crashing through windows. Butter hisses in the skillet. White wine steams upward dramatically as though auditioning for theater. Capers bounce around the pan like tiny salty marbles trying to escape responsibility.

It is impossible to cook this dish quietly.

Once, while making it, Everett wandered into the kitchen wearing swim goggles and asked if capers were “olive peas.”

Before I could answer, George grabbed one off the cutting board, ate it cautiously, and announced:

“It tastes like angry lemonade.”

Which, to be fair, is not entirely incorrect.

The boys love this dish with alarming intensity. They can detect the smell of lemons hitting hot butter from anywhere in the house. Bedrooms. Backyard. Possibly neighboring counties.

One evening I tried to make it quietly as a surprise.

Impossible.

The second the wine hit the pan, both boys came skidding into the kitchen like bloodhounds wearing socks.

“YOU’RE MAKING CHICKEN LEMON AND CAPERS.”

Not a question.

A declaration.

Everett immediately attempted to “help” by squeezing lemons directly with his hands like an old-time strongman at the circus. Seeds flew everywhere. One landed in my apron pocket. Another somehow ended up in his hair.

Meanwhile George stood at the stove giving completely unnecessary commentary like a tiny sports announcer.

“Strong butter performance tonight.”
“Good acid balance.”
“Capers looking aggressive.”

At one point Shanna walked in, surveyed the destruction, and simply asked:
“Why does it smell like a citrus factory exploded in here?”

No one answered because Everett had just discovered that capers bounce if dropped hard enough onto the counter.

For the next several minutes, dinner preparation paused entirely while we chased rogue capers across the kitchen floor like tiny runaway cannonballs.

And somehow… that feels appropriate for this dish.

Chicken Piccata was never meant to be elegant in our house.

It’s loud.
Bright.
Messy.
Covered in lemon juice.
Full of laughter and too much butter.

Just the way family dinners ought to be.

— Chef Dave Trosko