my fried chicken tastes like my mom's!
I've spent the better part of my adult life trying to make fried chicken like my mom does. crispy, salty, brown and yummy. I've spoken with her on the phone to get her recipe, had her walk me through it live while on the phone with a pan of hot grease bubbling close by....and yet, nothing.... it never tasted right. I've tried different recipes, different grease, different pans and different temps on the stove and still no luck.
No luck until say maybe 6 months ago. I'm not sure what the significance was of the moment. I'm not sure why, all of the sudden, it started to taste right but for some reason it changed. Perhaps it's that I'm more patient.... not rushing it.... not getting the grease too hot... burning the outside with the inside still a bit raw. Not turning the temp up high enough so that it becomes a grease soaked ball of dough. Perhaps it's because during my process of elimination I've grown to understand how to turn the grease up to an 8 while it's heating and then back it off to between a 6 and 7 for the fry! I'm just really not sure.
My parents came to visit recently. It wasn't a good visit. Our lives have taken such divergent paths there's little that holds us tightly together any longer. that makes me sad. My mom and dad drove 17 hours with a car full of canned tomatoes, beets, and green beans just so I could have a taste of home. I sometimes wonder if she realizes just how much like her I am. How I look at those old Mason jars on the shelf sometimes am brought to tears. I wonder if she realizes how much her jars of sunlight, veggies, dirt and Tennessee goodness bring me home everytime I taste a bite of them. I somehow don't think she does. I somehow think that she belives that my "big city" life has squashed out my appreciation for the small community and farm I grew up on. NO MOM! it's as if my shouts are growing fainter as they grow older.... NO MOM! really.... I'm running after you... wanting you and dad to remain close... NOOOO!
Tonight, one night before my 42 birthday I've just gorged myself on fried chicken that really tastes like home... my home.
No luck until say maybe 6 months ago. I'm not sure what the significance was of the moment. I'm not sure why, all of the sudden, it started to taste right but for some reason it changed. Perhaps it's that I'm more patient.... not rushing it.... not getting the grease too hot... burning the outside with the inside still a bit raw. Not turning the temp up high enough so that it becomes a grease soaked ball of dough. Perhaps it's because during my process of elimination I've grown to understand how to turn the grease up to an 8 while it's heating and then back it off to between a 6 and 7 for the fry! I'm just really not sure.
My parents came to visit recently. It wasn't a good visit. Our lives have taken such divergent paths there's little that holds us tightly together any longer. that makes me sad. My mom and dad drove 17 hours with a car full of canned tomatoes, beets, and green beans just so I could have a taste of home. I sometimes wonder if she realizes just how much like her I am. How I look at those old Mason jars on the shelf sometimes am brought to tears. I wonder if she realizes how much her jars of sunlight, veggies, dirt and Tennessee goodness bring me home everytime I taste a bite of them. I somehow don't think she does. I somehow think that she belives that my "big city" life has squashed out my appreciation for the small community and farm I grew up on. NO MOM! it's as if my shouts are growing fainter as they grow older.... NO MOM! really.... I'm running after you... wanting you and dad to remain close... NOOOO!
Tonight, one night before my 42 birthday I've just gorged myself on fried chicken that really tastes like home... my home.
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