FRYIN' CHICKEN

My wife Amy had a birthday recently. The kids came home, and grandson Madden also made an appearance, something that made the celebration all the more enjoyable for her. I decided that a special meal was in order for the day and dove into the culinary art with blind ambition.

            A couple of days before the family arrived for the weekend, I told Amy that the Saturday birthday menu included a main course of chicken. However, none of the conventional recipes for grilled or baked poultry would do. Nope, I was dead set on serving up fried chicken. 

            Since UT played football at 4:00, I began cooking the chicken at about 2:00. Anyone who grew up eating fried chicken knows the stuff is better after it’s sat around for a while. The crew eats well when we sit down to meals, so at least ten eight chicken breast needed to be prepared.

            Even if the food was going to be “fried,” I knew that it had to be prepared in as healthy a manner as possible. So, in the skillet I poured Virgin Olive Oil instead of melting Crisco. I dredged the pieces in flour with a little salt and pepper.

            For what seemed like the next hour, chicken fried and I flipped each piece several times to make sure they were thoroughly cooked. Amy commented somewhere along the line that I had the eye turned up too high, but I ignored her advice. Besides, she couldn’t possibly know the right temperature since we’ve not eaten a thing fried in our house in the last twenty years.

            My loving wife offered no more advice and left the kitchen to take a bath. For that I am grateful. Daughter Lacey and I were left to work on dinner. She fixed macaroni and cheese as one side dish. We also planned to have mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and brown and serve rolls. Yes, the meal was a definite carb overload, but hey, it was a special occasion.

            In a few minutes the kitchen became smoky. Lacey opened outside doors and turned on ceiling fans to allow the haze to clear. The problem was grease, I thought that what escaped the pan was moisture, but it turned out to be condensation…and oil. The stuff seeped toward the eye and then burned and turned to smoke. It turns out my dear wife was correct about the stove eye being turned too high. The last two piece of chicken cooked in a rather dark crust, not burned but just a bit darker than the rest.

            The aftermath of my chicken frying was a mess. The stove top was covered with oil, and the eye was black where the stuff had burned. The floor also was as slick as one at a fast-food burger joint from the oil. I retrieved a can of Bar Keeper cleaner and scrubbed the stove. Then I found the mop and cleaned the floor. By the time Amy returned to the kitchen, nothing was out of place. She knew nothing of the mess that I’d made.

            The chicken was a big success. Amy had to make the potatoes because there was no way I was stepping a foot into the kitchen again. We ate like pigs and then complained about being too full. Before the night passed, the remaining pieces of chicken disappeared.

            I’m not a good cook; however, during my later years, my willingness to try new recipes expands. A couple of days later, I fixed a meatloaf that Amy and I both ate without becoming ill. The best part of the chicken frying was the smell that filled the house. The same kind used to make our mouths water as children on Sunday after church. Mother might have looked down from above, shaken her head, and smiled at my attempt to feed my family one of the most wonderful foods the good lord ever offered his children.