Perhaps I’m revealing my millennial tendencies here, but one of my preferred weekend formats — and I have several — goes like this: iced coffee in hand (the ice miraculously slow to melt, the straw sturdy enough to survive the afternoon), weather warm enough to ditch the bulky coat but cool enough that neither I nor my to-go cup are sweating, and a slow, looping pilgrimage from thrift store to bookstore to stationery shop and back to thrift store again.
Several weeks ago, on an unseasonably warm winter afternoon in Chicago, I found myself in the second — or possibly third — thrift shop of the day. As a self-appointed field scout of secondhand retail, I’ve come to recognize its taxonomies: the former boutiques that quietly became “vintage” by simply retagging unsold merchandise; the curated ones with respectable hat racks and a suspicious abundance of beaded evening bags from a time when evening bags felt mandatory; the Gen Z–run operations where slightly battered designer handbags are displayed behind thick plastic cases with the reverence of relics; and then there’s the final category — fluorescent-lit, faintly chaotic, clothing organized by color rather than size, one mannequin dressed for the beach and another for church in 1987, a plastic limb possibly missing.
This was that last kind.
Which is often where the good stuff lives.
I was thumbing through an overstuffed bookshelf when I saw it — wedged between “The Internet for Dummies” and “Robinson Crusoe”: a well-worn copy of “In the Kitchen with Rosie,” published in 1994 (a year after I was born) by Rosie Daley, Oprah Winfrey’s personal chef.
It stopped me cold. I flipped to the index. Chicken. Page 39.
And then I texted my dad.
(Ashlie Stevens ) “In the Kitchen with Rosie,” illustrated
Now, here’s something you should know about my dad: I love him. He’s great. We call. We Facebook message. We do not text.
In fact, I checked my 2025 text history from him. There are about a dozen messages total — typically clustered around holidays, birthdays, breaking celebrity-chef news or the rare occasions when the Cubs or Bears are playing exceptionally well.
So this chicken? It was special. It warranted a missive.
Looking at the recipe for Rosie’s “Unfried Chicken” now, as someone who develops her own, I can admit it’s not revolutionary. It’s an oven-baked, yogurt-dipped, breadcrumb-coated situation designed to deliver crunch without deep-frying — very 1994, very earnest, very effective.
But the seasoning list for the breading? Oh.
An almost aggressively spiced medley: Italian breadcrumbs, Old Bay, thyme, oregano, garlic powder; a pantry symphony that bordered on excessive in the way only a ’90s “healthy” recipe could. My dad made it often when I was a kid — along with a white chicken chili that still feels mythic in my memory — and standing there in that thrift store aisle, fluorescent lights humming overhead, I felt something like a culinary lightning strike: I want to make a weeknight chicken that makes me feel this excited again.
A chicken worth texting your dad about.
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As I do whenever I’m trying to develop something new, I put pen to paper. What, exactly, had lodged itself in my brain all these years later?
A few things surfaced. First — and this is embarrassingly practical — I was a child. I did no prep. The chicken simply materialized at dinner time, fully seasoned and deeply golden. So: noted. Whatever I made now needed to be weeknight-friendly. Preferably one pan. Minimal dishes. No theatrics. Second: dark meat. Thighs. Which meant tenderness, forgiveness, no dry-breast anxiety. This was not a fussy chicken. It was generous.
But when I really pressed on the memory — when I tried to locate the most sensory detail — it wasn’t the yogurt dip or the crumb coating or even the spice blend.
It was the parts no one plated.
The breadcrumb shards that blackened and caramelized at the edges of the sheet pan. The almost overly seasoned bits that clung stubbornly to the metal. I would pry them off with my fingers and eat them standing at the stove, like a tiny kitchen thief. Crunchy. Slightly bitter. Salty. Borderline too dark in the way that makes something irresistible.
They were, unquestionably, the best part.
Which is funny, because in the online forums where other people still remember this recipe (which delights me to no end), one of the most common complaints is that the crumbs stuck unless you used an aggressive amount of nonstick spray. They were never meant to stick around.
And yet.
Somewhere between page 39 and the fluorescent lights of that thrift store, I realized what I actually wanted to make wasn’t a better “unfried chicken.” I wanted to engineer a chicken dish breadcrumb-first.
Here’s how we do it now.
A better weeknight chicken, breadcrumb-first
(Ashlie Stevens ) Old Bay and Tony’s Creole Seasoning
Marinate chicken thighs in whole-milk yogurt — the kind that coats thickly and carries salt and spice deep into the meat. (Bone-in, skin-on if you want the full effect; boneless if you need speed.) Yogurt doesn’t just tenderize; it creates a thin lactic crust that browns beautifully in a hot pan.
Sear the thighs skin-side down in a wide skillet until the fat renders and the skin turns deeply golden, verging on bronze. You’re not chasing “lightly browned.” You want real color — the kind that smells savory and faintly nutty. Remove the chicken and leave the rendered fat behind. That’s your foundation.
Into that fat, add sliced shallots and garlic with a pinch of thyme and oregano. Let them soften slowly, blooming until fragrant and slightly sweet, their edges translucent and relaxed. The dried herbs toast just enough to release their oils, turning the air warm and aromatic.
Add two cans of white beans and a splash of stock. Simmer until the liquid reduces and the starches thicken into something spoonable and lush. Fold in winter greens — kale, escarole, spinach — and let them wilt just until tender but still verdant. A splash of white wine or rice vinegar sharpens the whole skillet, lifting the richness without thinning it.
Nestle the chicken back on top so the juices mingle with the beans.
Meanwhile — and this is where my favorite engineering happens — toast the breadcrumbs.
Use panko for its craggy architecture. In a separate pan, warm olive oil with a small knob of butter, then bloom Old Bay and Tony Chachere’s. The latter is a nod to my dad, who, in an act of seasoning maximalism I now deeply respect, added it to Rosie’s chicken in addition to Old Bay, effectively doubling (if not tripling) down on spice. Which, honestly, is about the right amount.
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You could, of course, build this blend from individual jars — thyme, oregano, paprika, cayenne — but these pantry workhorses are weeknight shortcuts to complexity. Let them sizzle lightly in the fat before the crumbs go in; that’s how the spices bloom.
Add the panko and let it sit undisturbed in places so it develops real color. You want freckles and edges that lean just shy of too dark. Stir occasionally, but not obsessively. Off heat, fold in lemon zest — the volatile oils hit the warm crumbs and bloom instantly, perfuming them. Scatter the crumbs generously over the skillet. Not as just garnish, but as structure.
If you want to chase that childhood sheet-pan magic, slide the whole thing under the broiler for a few minutes. The edges will crisp further; the crumbs will toast again; the top layer will take on that barely bitter, deeply savory edge that makes you reach back into the pan for one more bite.
Finish with fresh herbs and a quick yogurt sauce: lemon juice, chopped herbs and enough Old Bay to tint it faintly coral.
It’s rich, yes. But it’s also sharp and bright and layered — winter comfort with architectural crunch.
Maybe I wasn’t just chasing a better chicken.
I was chasing the edges, too.
Here’s the recipe.
Ingredients
For the chicken
- 6 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs (about 2½–3 pounds, or 1½–2 pounds boneless, skinless thighs)
- 1 cup whole-milk Greek yogurt
- 2 garlic cloves, grated
- 1 teaspoon kosher salt
- ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- 1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning
- ½ teaspoon dried thyme
- ½ teaspoon dried oregano
- Zest of ½ lemon
For the beans & greens
- 1 tablespoon olive oil (if needed)
- 1 large shallot, thinly sliced
- 2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
- ½ teaspoon dried thyme
½ teaspoon dried oregano - 2 (15-ounce) cans white beans (cannellini or butter beans), drained and rinsed
- ½ cup chicken stock (plus more if needed)
- 4 cups chopped winter greens (kale, escarole, or spinach)
- 1–2 teaspoons white wine vinegar, rice vinegar, or white balsamic
- Kosher salt, to taste
- 1 cup panko breadcrumbs
- 1 tablespoon olive oil
- 1 tablespoon butter
- 1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning
- 1 teaspoon Tony Chachere’s Creole seasoning
- ½ teaspoon dried thyme
- ½ teaspoon dried oregano
- ½ teaspoon dried dill
- ½ teaspoon garlic powder
- ½ teaspoon onion powder
- ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- ¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes (optional)
- Zest of 1 lemon
- Flaky salt, to taste
Quick yogurt sauce
- ½ cup whole-milk yogurt
- 1 tablespoon lemon juice
- 1–2 teaspoons Old Bay (enough to tint faintly pink)
- 2 tablespoons chopped fresh herbs (parsley, dill, chives)
- Pinch salt
Directions
- Marinate the chicken. In a large bowl, combine yogurt, garlic, salt, pepper, Old Bay, thyme, oregano, and lemon zest. Add the chicken and toss to coat thoroughly. Cover and refrigerate at least 30 minutes (or up to overnight).
- Sear the chicken. Heat a wide, oven-safe skillet over medium heat. Place the chicken skin-side down (no need to oil the pan). Cook undisturbed for 8–12 minutes, until the skin is deeply golden and much of the fat has rendered. Flip and cook 3–4 minutes more.
- Transfer chicken to a plate. Leave the rendered fat in the pan. (If using boneless thighs, reduce cook time slightly; you want good color but not overcooking.)
- Build the beans. If the pan looks dry, add a drizzle of olive oil. Add shallot, garlic, thyme, and oregano. Cook over medium heat until softened and fragrant, about 3–4 minutes. Add beans and stock. Bring to a simmer and cook 5–7 minutes, stirring occasionally, until slightly thickened and stewy. If needed, add a splash more stock.
- Fold in greens and cook just until wilted but still vibrant. Season with salt and brighten with 1–2 teaspoons vinegar.
- Nestle the chicken back on top of the beans.
- Toast the breadcrumbs. In a separate skillet over medium heat, warm olive oil and butter. Add Old Bay, Tony Chachere’s, thyme, oregano, dill, garlic powder, onion powder, black pepper, and red pepper flakes. Let the spices sizzle gently for 20–30 seconds.
- Add panko and toss to coat. Cook, stirring occasionally but allowing some areas to sit undisturbed, until golden brown with a few darker freckles, 4–6 minutes. Remove from heat and immediately fold in lemon zest and a pinch of flaky salt.
- Assemble & broil (optional but recommended). Scatter breadcrumbs generously over the chicken and beans — not lightly, but decisively. For extra crunch, transfer the skillet to the oven and broil 3–5 minutes, watching carefully, until the crumbs deepen slightly in color.
- Make the yogurt sauce. Stir together yogurt, lemon juice, Old Bay, herbs, and salt. Adjust seasoning. The sauce should be tangy and faintly coral in color.
- Finish & serve. Top the skillet with fresh herbs and an extra squeeze of lemon. Serve warm with yogurt sauce spooned over or alongside.
This story originally appeared in The Bite, my weekly food newsletter for Salon. If you enjoyed it and would like more essays, recipes, technique explainers and interviews sent straight to your inbox, subscribe here.
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