My house still smells like burned chicken. I will even go so far as to call it burnt chicken, which I believe to be worse. I'm wondering, if I cook salmon patties, will the smells combat one another and disappear. Of course, they could combine and create a super smell that would require a Hazmat team to be summoned. Also, my sister informed me today that she knows the secret to frying chicken like our Grandma Leona. She said she overheard people saying this and that about how Grandma cooked chicken. I do not know where I was when whoever these people are were talking about this. I suspect either a television was on or I was trying to figure out where the pie was. Anyway, she is going to show me the secrets on Monday, and I will let you know how that goes.
I thought that frying chicken would be a good place to start, but it almost cost me my life. I had gone to the grocery store to pick up the ingredients, and a woman in a truck almost backed over me. I had to jump back, which was no small feat with the giant pieces of chicken I had bought. I would be upset if I had not come to expect it at every shopping center in America. Today I tried the recipe of one of my friends from Tennessee. She is quite a good cook, and I am often a disappointment to her in this realm.
So I start by seasoning the chicken, forgetting that I need to dip it in buttermilk. I backtrack and reread the advice she has given. She said that the temperature of the oil was very important. I got it good and hot. I truly excelled at that part. The first photo shows you the result. I'm not certain I've burned anything quite that bad, except for the marshmallows that I purposely catch on fire. Grease popped and smoke filled the kitchen. We determined the first trial to be less than edible. The cats didn't even show an interest, and they love chicken. The second try turned out a little better. The crust was crispy and very pretty. It was edible. I do wish that I could say the same about the inside. I would call it medium rather than medium rare. We are still waiting to see if our health will be affected. I'm not certain that my husband will be ready for try number two, but we must proceed forward. Next is my mom's recipe and advice.
I was born in the South. I have the accent, the eccentric relatives, and the love of all that is Fannie Flagg. What brought this website about? For one thing, I really like and I really don’t know how to fry chicken. And frankly, I realized that I will be considered the missing link once I have children. I will be the reason that they only know how to cook things that come in cans. They will think the can opener is a major appliance. If they have to escape via tractor, they will be out of luck. Grits will be a thing some of their more astute friends will have to explain to them. I’m not saying that becoming what I call a proper Southern woman will save these children. I mean, my mom cooks a mean cornbread. I cook a fairly grumpy and quite ugly cornbread. This is not her fault. She tried. A friend tried to teach me to quilt, and I am fairly certain she had to seek counseling afterward. Of course, now, as with piano lessons, I wish I had paid a little more attention to those basic skills women sometimes teach their daughters and sons. I have a husband who sews, builds, cooks, repairs, and gardens far better than I can ever hope to. He can pretty much do it all, and I can microwave pizza. So much for being equally-yoked. To catch up with my husband and in hopes of having at least one or two skills to pass on to our future children, I am going to spend a year learning all of those things my Momma begged me to learn years ago. Follow me as I become a proper Southern woman.