How Roasting a Chicken Cures My Mom Guilt
by Dana Ashburn
Me, my husband Garrett, and our sons Beau & Harlin at Stockton Market’s first birthday party.
“How do you do it?” is a question I get asked often. I assume what people mean is: run a business, be a mother of two young boys, a wife, a friend, work Saturdays, have a puppy, show up and smile - even when a customer requests French toast without sugar… just dig deep and find a smile.
As I auto-dictate this into my phone, I’m watching my one-year-old eat bubbles in the bathtub off the head of a dinosaur. I am physically present, but I’m also thinking about our blog while I probably should be prioritizing the fact that my son is eating soap. But… you have to choose your battles, right? When inspiration strikes, don’t let it get away!
One of the most inspiring things I heard another young mom say was at Stockton Market’s first Coffee Talk, when The Mother Load author Sarah Hoover spoke about how working moms can’t actually have it all. Instead, you have to be okay with doing everything at about 70%. In that sense, you can do it all - but only by making sacrifices. Often, it’s the small moments. And maybe you’re okay with that.
That idea has ushered me into my “it’s fine” era. “It’s fine” means it checks the boxes - even if it isn’t how I’d do it if my hands were free and my mind weren’t buried in the weeds. I wish all of my energy could be funneled into every task and project that comes my way. But I’ve had to let go of a lot of things that might seem small to others but don’t feel small when you’re a control freak. I’ve also had to be okay with receiving help - because there’s simply no other way to do it “all.”
I have always loved to work. As far back as I can remember, I couldn’t wait to work. Some people dread it. Most would rather socialize or take a relaxing vacation. That’s not how I’m wired. I have a disease: Which is that I want to turn every hobby into a business. I’ve attended two colleges and about four trade schools - barely finishing any of them. I’m never quite satisfied, always pushing, always convinced I need just enough information to get my hands around the concept and then I am good to go.
When I decided to have kids, I wasn’t sure how I would balance it all - especially now that a “village” doesn’t really exist the way it once did. Navigating modern motherhood takes strategy, flexibility, and lots of communication. These days, you have to pay for a village. We’ve been incredibly lucky to find people we trust. Having help at home is critical for a working mom. These are the people who help raise your children - and sometimes, it feels like our nanny takes care of my husband and I too. We operate with a team mentality. It has to be that way to keep everyone supported, fed, clean, on time, and only mildly feral.
When I was in high school, I interned for Bobbi Brown. No, not the singer - the makeup artist. Bobbi has three boys, and even then, I remember asking her how she did it all. She said that at the beginning of every school year, she would meet with the principal of her kids school and map out the most important dates ahead of time. This meant she wasn’t at every practice, scrimmage, or meeting - but she was there for every major game, production, or conference that truly required her presence. Her boys always knew she would show up for the big stuff and when they looked out into the crowd - she'd be there. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
That idea has stayed with me. Especially because I was raised by a working mom who did so much on her own. The concept of a mother having help has never felt foreign to me - being the one who doesn’t always make dinner or drive you to and from school, but who is there when it really matters. Being a mom is the ultimate juggling act.
When it comes to dinnertime, we eat from Stockton Market at least four nights a week - which is amazing, convenient, and, not for nothing, a huge relief knowing we’re using quality ingredients. Maybe we order takeout once a week. Then my husband or our nanny will cook another night, and I usually try to claim Monday night as mine. Which is what led me to write this article.
While I would love to have the time to cook something new every night - that’s simply a Pinterest pipe dream, a TradWife fantasy. Instead, I started thinking about the dishes I grew up with, the ones that remind me of my childhood, my mom and my grandmother. We were never a family with a lot of traditions, and honestly, we still aren’t - so simple recipes carry memories and history. For me, I’ll always love my mom’s chicken and rice. If I had to pick a final meal, that would be it: salted butter, sizzling sweet onions in a pot with white rice, lots and lots of paprika, and maybe a dash of apple juice to add extra sweetness. The chicken is broken down into little shreds, tender and succulent.
Then there’s noodles and cream - a dish you might only love if you grew up with it. Egg noodles, sour cream, and if you’re feeling fancy, maybe some peas. Comfort in a bowl, memory on a plate. And don’t forget to top it with flaky salt and a dash of pepper. Yum!
It was weighing on me that my sons might grow up and never have those kinds of memories. With so little time to cook, I decided I needed an own-able dish - something simple, like my childhood favorites. Something that would make the house smell like home. Something simple enough that I could throw together and set a timer - a true set-it-and-forget-it dish.
I preheat the oven to 350°F, toss carrots and onions into a pan with a whole chicken whose skin is stuffed with French salted butter and seasoned with more salt and pepper. Basic? Yes. Tasteless? Absolutely not. You could add fresh herbs or even stick a whole apple in the chicken’s… hindquarters (I refuse to say cavity - ew). Cube some potatoes, toss in peppers, whatever you have on hand. I let it roast for an hour, or until the thermometer reads 165°F. Make some white rice, and dinner is served. A home-cooked meal. Wow… can I now consider myself a homemaker?
Something about roasting a chicken feels like adulting - but don’t worry, that’s not all. The first time I made this, I realized it’s actually the gift that keeps on giving. After all the meat is torn from the bones and the vegetables devoured, take a look at what’s left. It’s not trash! Fill a pot with water and toss in the chicken remains along with any lonely vegetables lingering in your fridge. It’s their time to shine! Heck, throw in a whole garlic clove. Live on the edge! Let it simmer as long as possible, and you’ve just made bone broth. I’ll let it go for 24 hours or more - yes, I leave the stove on, simmering while we sleep (I only have one to two nightmares about our house burning to ashes because I just had to feel like a better mom) I cover the pot with foil, poking a few holes for the steam to escape.
In the morning, I strain the broth into glass jars (I really love glass jars. Ball Jars and Roa’s Marinara Jars are awesome) Trigger warning: once it cools, it will turn gelatinous. Yes, chicken jello. Gross - but that’s how you know it’s good. When it warms back up, you’ll have perfect broth. From there, it’s liquid gold. Over the next few days, we use it in everything: warm it up and drink it, boil noodles or rice in it for more nutrients, make a quick soup, sub it in for recipe that call for water or broth. Want to feel like the goddamn mother of the year? Watching your kids scarf down anything made with homemade chicken-and-vegetable stock is truly priceless.
Doing this cures my mom guilt. It makes me feel like I’m doing something healthy for my boys, creating positive food memories, giving them an exciting expectation, while secretly tricking them into drinking bone broth. All jokes aside, mom guilt is real. The moment you look at social media, the world is telling you that you are unknowingly killing your family by using the wrong cutting board. It’s hard out here. But I am finding my way, and I hope you are finding yours.
I want to thank Abby at Ally Psychology for recommending Pristiq, because come on, how do I do it all? Ha. Medicine. Nicole Hollander at Hush, because her restrained use of Botox makes me look much more refreshed than I feel. My mom, for giving me a fierce work ethic and setting a standard that it’s important to prioritize your creativity and needs, and to never let go of your dreams. My Stockton Market and Stockton Inn families for helping me keep our combined dream alive. My husband, for being an absolute rock star father. Pops, for always believing in me. My sons, for suffocating me with unconditional love even when I am touched out. Our nanny, Maria, for keeping us going.