…but I’m only average when it comes to frying chicken.
Yes ladies and gentlemen. A black woman who is only so-so in the fried chicken department. Now, those who have had the pleasure of sharing a meal with me, know that I’m a pretty good cook. You name it, I can pretty much throw down. Delicious home made soups, the juiciest most tender meatballs on earth, jambalaya that can make you slap your mama, pork chops that will make you renounce your dietary restrictions, and I won’t even go there on my fried fish (I do lots of catfish here, but I’m more of a trout girl).
I can do anything else with chicken. I can barbecue, stir fry, bake (OMG, my tequila lime chicken…SA-LIE-VAH!), and stew chicken til the cows come home. But, when I’m standing over the grease to fry up a mess of chicken, and something comes over me. Let me reiterate, my fried chicken is cool. It’s tasty enough. However, considering that everything else I make is the bomb, my fried chicken being less than steallar disturbs me. It just doesn’t quite strike that balance of crisp on the outside, juicy within.
And yet, my children are begging me to fry some chicken tonight. And I am engaged in a conflict within, because I am forced to prepare mediocrity. And that just ain’t my style.
The horror.
