usadeepsouth.com
by Edward V. Folkes
Let me tell you about the time a piece of Southern Fried Chicken spoke to me. I can still remember hearing that tender, crunchy, breast calling to me from across that platter. It was a scorching, hot, Sunday in August when we were all gathered near the Withlacoochee River on the family farm for the annual reunion. Over a hundred or more friends and relatives were milling about the manicured acreage up around the house and garden.
My, it was lovely to see that old antebellum house with a veranda stretching around three sides and every rocking chair occupied. People were talking, laughing, and just plain happy to see each other. The luncheon table was a big old utility trailer that Uncle Bobby Jim had moved to a shady spot under the oaks. All the ladies were decorating every inch of that table with fine Southern foods of every kind.
Then I heard the voice.
"Son, just come on over here and look me over."
I looked around, thinking someone had spoken, but no one was there. Strange, I thought and then the voice spoke again.
"Am I not fried golden brown? Don't I titillate your senses with a wonderful aroma? Now, tell me the truth, can't you taste my juicy, sweet, flavor in your mouth? Wouldn't you say I am divine? Surely, I'm one of the most delectable pieces of fried chicken you have ever encountered?"
I couldn't believe it, not one bit, that a piece of chicken was talking to me. But the proof was that the voice kept it up!
"I bet you are hungry after that long drive out here to the farm? Now, do you truly think any one here would begrudge you my superb, white, meat? Come on now, move around here, just so, and reach your little hand out to me. Come on now!"
Oh, the subterfuge!
What might have been at work for me here is that Uncle Bobby Jim, his brother Carl, and my other uncle, Johnny Johnson, were gathered around Bobby Jim's new GMC pickup. Lou (Boy) Willis, Big Pete Peterson, and Bo Robert Lee Bryant joined them to admire this fine piece of machinery. There was a cover over the truck bed and under the guise of studying the moving parts, the boys were slipping beer from a big washtub of ice hidden under that well fitting cover.
I already knew they were in trouble.
Aunt Eudora Mae has a nose for demon rum like no other person I have ever known. I could tell something was going to happen by the way she kept looking down toward the dirt road where Bobby Jim had parked his truck. She was going after them. Only a matter of time. Now, if my timing was right, when Aunt Eudora Mae moved, I could snatch up that tender morsel of cluck and, with any luck, polish it off before she could get back to sorting out the serving table. I figured three more sideways glances and she would be gone.
Make it two. She was off like a shot. With a big smile on my face, I reached for that chicken delight.
"Tut, tut, cousin! Now, you just stop that, Mr. Greedy Gut! We eat in fifteen minutes after Reverend Barnes says grace. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said, feeling the same guilt my former third grade teacher had instilled in me forty years ago. By the way, that's exactly who caught me trying to snatch up that delectable morsel of southern fried.
Miss Iris Jane Longhorn just looked at me with those oversized, blue-gray eyes, the way she always did when I was in trouble. Funny how some things never change.
Don't you wonder what makes Southern fried chicken so unique?
Besides the tender loving care your momma put into cooking it just right, nobody seems to know exactly. On the Net, Southern U.S. Cuisine reports that although there are many variations, Southern fried chicken is usually cooked in pieces, covered in flour, seasoned to taste, and "fried till golden brown."
Another web site, Southern Fried Chicken, says to use an "iron skillet." This site provides essentially the same advice for preparation and cooking, but points out that some cooks soak the chicken in buttermilk or peel the skin off first before applying flour.
At the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, an electronic edition of Mary Mason's 1802-1881--The Young Housewife's Counsellor and Friend provides historical support. The essay says, "Cut up your chickens, wash them clean, salt and pepper them. Have ready boiling lard, flour your chickens, and fry them a light brown. Serve without gravy; the dish is handsomer."
This guide was "written expressly for the benefit of residents of the Southern States," and still makes sense today.
BIO: Edward V. Folkes, Jr., a native Floridian, lives and works in Tampa, Florida. "The deep roots of the South are here in Tampa," he writes, "but certainly have been diluted over the years. I was raised in a small, rural town, Dade City, Florida, about thirty miles north of Tampa that I consider more 'cracker' country. Its institutions and society were certainly more deeply rooted in the Old South. I have family in both Virginia and Alabama, and thoroughly enjoy the connection and continuing experience of my heritage."
Want to leave a comment on Ed’s story?
Please visit our Message Board or write Ye Editor at bethjacks@hotmail.com.
Thanks!
Back to USADEEPSOUTH index page