Another One Bites the Dust

The only thing left to do with the roasted chicken from Sunday was to throw together a casserole. Michael and I had been talking about trying to incorporate more curry powder and turmeric into our diet, since both are purported to have anti-inflammatory properties and since we both suffer from osteroarthritis in various body parts.
Curried chicken it would be then; this is important for several reasons. Four days after the cooking, there's not a lot of chicken left, perhaps the equivilant of almost one entire breast (both sides). A casserole can stretch out the protein to serve four  when, served alone, the same amount might serve only two. Second, four days in the refrigerator suggests to me that heating the chicken through is a good idea. The amount of bacteria in food is something remarkable, and I'd rather not have gastric distress just because I'm frugal.
My plan, then, was a relatively simple one: cook some brown rice, chop the leftover chicken, steam some broccoli, and combine everything to bake in the oven until bubbly. I added the spices to the rice rather than to the sauce or the chicken; it gives the rice cooker a lovely golden glow. I mixed several spoonfuls of Miracle Whip with one of Greek yogurt and a little milk to thin it out. I added that to the chicken in a casserole dish. I dumped in the rice when it was almost done and then the steamed broccoli. After I had tossed it all together, I sprinkled on some Italian seasoned breadcrumbs and grated a little parmegiano-reggiano over the top. It was in the oven at 350 for about 25 minutes. Michael and Ben both added salt at the table, but I was fine with it. I wish I had put some of the curry in the sauce, but it was fine. I brought half of the leftovers for lunch today.
Dinner was one of those strangely silent ones; sometimes Michael seems moody for no reason I understand. It might have been the dinner; it might have been the music ("A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night"); it might have been that the Orioles were trounced in a day game; it might have been nothing in particular. I've found it's best not to question him at these times. I try to give him space for his moods, something that I usually don't need because I'm not moody.
I am generally operating on an even keel and rarely get upset even about things that seriously affect others. My mother taught me, by example, that pragmatism beats out temper every time. Since there were six of us siblings, dinner was a noisy adventure. If someone spilled milk or tea or soda at the table, my father would explode. He wanted to know who had spilled it and why, as if a child could possible explain to his/father why the glass went over. My mother, on the other hand, would grab a sponge or a towel and clean it up without saying a word.
Michael wears his emotions on his sleeve. In me, still waters run deep. I feel a lot and think a lot, but I keep both to myself much of the time. The combination has worked for us for the almost 44 years we've know each other and the almost 34 years we've been married. I guess we'll keep it up.