Tuesday morning I was standing in the kitchen getting a chicken ready to put in the crock pot. James was sitting at the bar eating breakfast.
“Whatchu gonna do with that chicken?”
“I’m putting it in the crock pot so we can eat it for dinner tonight.” I looked over at him. “No comment.” For some reason, my family is not crazy about food cooked in the crock pot. While I agree it doesn’t always taste as good as what is prepared on the stove or in the oven, I like it. Because it is easy. And it is done when I get home. Which is what I told him.
“Why don’t you fry it?”
“Because I can’t fry chicken.” I explained that I tried once and it did not turn out right.
“Well, Nana can.”
My mother makes AMAZING fried chicken. “I know. Hers is the best.” He asked what was wrong with mine when I tried to cook it. “Well, it was burned on the outside and raw on the inside. It was pretty awful.”
“Not Nana’s.” He got a dreamy look in his eyes. “Hers was all golden and crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside. It was…” He tried to come up with a word to adequately explain the fried delicacy he had eaten at my mother’s house the previous weekend. And failed. “Good. It was so good.”
“Mmmhmmm…” I dumped my chicken into the crockpot and started sprinkling it with seasoning.
“And she made these potatoes with gravy.” I believe he may have sighed at this point. “I know. We should invite Nana over for dinner and have her fry the chicken.”
“It isn’t very nice to invite someone over for dinner and then ask them to cook the food.”
“Well, you can do the potatoes or whatever. Just let Nana cook the chicken.”
I have now been relegated to “potatoes or whatever”. Which totally works for me ’cause my momma really does make some good fried chicken.
That photo is not my momma’s fried chicken. It is always gone too fast to take a photo. I’m using it via a Creative Commons License. It belongs to The Bitten Word.