To Everything There Is a Season (turn, turn, turn)

We're entering a mini heat spell in my neighborhood in the next few days. It's warm now, in fact, but we might go up to the 80s.
Still, I gotta run this photo now. It was cool and gray in the past weeks, and we got a hankering for chicken pot pie.
We are fortunate to have a seller of spit-roasted chickens at our farmers market. The chickens are local, beautifully herbed, and already cooked by the time the market opens in the morning. (The vendor must be like a bakery, getting up in the middle of the night to prepare the day's wares. Imagine driving this truck of hot birds down the highway.)
One of the first things we did (OK, actually sandwich first, with still-warm meat) was to strip the meat off the carcass, set it aside, and make a slow simmer of the bones for a couple of hours. The already-present herbs were a present, already.
Now, I'm not going to get too 'splainy on you, because I made this pot pie without a recipe (last time I used a pot pie recipe I got a putz pie). I made a white sauce, with a good gulp of the chicken stock and a drizzle of milk.
Cut up some carrots and onions; sauteed them in oil? butter? Forgot. Tossed in a handful of green peas.
When you buy these roasted chickens, you have the option of getting some cooked potatoes; the spit rods are above a holding tank of taters that lie there, getting rained on by chicken grease. Heaven.
So I cut up some of them, too. Didn't even bother with mushrooms.
Here's the easy part: Throw the vegetables into the white sauce, then stir in rough cubes of cooked chicken.
Top it with a crust (this was a frozen puff pastry), made into the shape of your perfect two-person baking dish.
Bake, half-hour.
That's supposed to be a heart on top.