Fan Fiction Friday: Mrs. Potter’s Chicken and Dumplings
Alton Brown fan fiction crossover index
[EXT. 4077th COMPOUND — LATE AFTERNOON]
The camp has changed.
Not dramatically. No flags. No speeches. Just… benches dragged into a loose semicircle, crates turned into makeshift tables, and an unmistakable smell drifting through the air.
Real food.
[NEAR THE MESS TENT]
ALTON BROWN stands behind a field-expedient cooking setup that somehow looks both improvised and intentional. Pots simmer. Flour dusts the air. The audience—doctors, nurses, enlisted men, orderlies—fills in naturally, shoulder to shoulder.
COLONEL POTTER stands off to one side, coffee cup in hand, observing with the practiced eye of a man who has commanded troops and kitchens with equal seriousness.
ALTON (to the crowd)
Folks, before we start the cooking, I want to be very clear about something.
The crowd quiets. Someone coughs. A helicopter thumps faintly in the distance.
ALTON
I didn’t invent this recipe.
A ripple of amusement.
ALTON
I didn’t improve it. I didn’t “elevate” it. And I absolutely did not modernize it.
Potter’s lips twitch.
ALTON
This is Colonel Potter’s favorite chicken and dumplings. Specifically—Mrs. Potter’s Chicken and Dumplings.
A low, appreciative murmur moves through the crowd.
POTTER (dryly)
He’s smart enough to know when to keep his hands off history.
ALTON
I made a special trip to Hannibal, Missouri. Cooked right alongside Mildred Potter in her own kitchen.
He gestures toward the pot.
ALTON
Same method. Same rhythm. Same rule: if you rush the dumplings, they know.
Laughter.
[Alton lifts the lid. Steam rolls out. The smell hits hard.]
Someone in the back lets out an involuntary “Oh, wow.”
ALTON
Now—Mrs. Potter usually finishes this with a couple of bay leaves.
He pauses. Looks around.
ALTON
We didn’t have any.
A few groans. Someone boos playfully.
ALTON (grinning)
So we used garlic.
The crowd explodes with laughter and applause.
POTTER (calling out)
Mildred would approve. She always said garlic counts as a vegetable and a mood.
ALTON
She also said the dumplings should be tender enough to forgive you.
Potter’s expression softens—just a fraction.
POTTER
She believed good food doesn’t fix everything. It just reminds you what you’re fixing things for.
The moment hangs. No violins. No speeches. Just truth.
[Alton ladles the first serving.]
The line forms instantly, orderly without being ordered. Bowls appear from nowhere. Someone hands out spoons like medals.
ALTON
Make sure night shift gets fed first.
POTTER (approving)
Already handled.
[MONTAGE]
—A nurse closing her eyes on the first bite.
—An orderly scraping the bowl clean without embarrassment.
—Two surgeons eating in silence, which for them is rare.
—A pot scraped nearly empty.
[Alton steps back, watching the camp eat.]
ALTON (quietly, to Potter)
She cooks like she leads.
POTTER
Consistent. Fair. And she makes sure everybody’s got enough.
They watch as someone hands a second bowl to a tired medic without asking.
POTTER
That’s morale, Mr. Brown.
ALTON
Yes, sir.
The sun dips lower. Bowls empty. The camp settles—not into peace, but into something steadier.
[FADE OUT.]
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