A Lesson in Humility: Fried Chicken is NOT My Frying Friend

As a bona fide child of the south—born and raised (yes, Maryland is below the Mason-Dixon Line), and residing even further south in Georgia for nearly 21 years–I hold fast to my southern heritage. While I don’t go around whistling “Dixie,” there are things about the south that I find endearing, one of which is the food.

Let it not be said that southerners don’t know how to throw down in the kitchen. I should know. My dear mom was also a child of the south, and that woman could rock a pot like no other. I learned quite a lot from my mom: Respect my elders. Always say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Don’t take candy from strangers.

One thing I failed to learn from my mom, however, was how to successfuly fry chicken.

Who doesn't love a crispy piece of fried chicken from time to time?

It’s true . . . I have, on occasion, endeavored to swallow my sizeable pride (e.g. embarrassment), make the walk of shame into the kitchen, lug out the ten pound seasoned cast iron skillet, grab the flour and seasonings and whip up a batch of southern fried chicken. Each time, it has been a dismal failure. For as great as I am in other areas of my life—including, ironically, my culinary skills in the kitchen—fried chicken is decidedly not my forte.

One day back in the spring of 2005, I was bored beyond belief. There was nothing remotely intelligent to watch on TV, my dog was ignoring me because I had attempted to force feed him raw carrots, I wasn’t dating anyone at the time (which caused varying degrees of suckiness on a daily basis) and, the final insult of the day was to hear a bluebird commit suicide by slamming into my front door and perishing on my “Welcome” mat.

With nothing else constructive to do, I decided to once again try my hand at fried chicken. This wasn’t just any fried chicken recipe I would be using. It was clearly someone’s idea of a joke (as you’ll soon come to know, based on the outcome), to which I fell hook, line and sinker.

Buttermilk beer battered crispy fried chicken.

Sounds delicious, doesn’t it? And it was. There was just one problem. It was a little too crispy. Once I was able to make my way past the jaw shattering crunch, the flavor of the poultry was absolutely divine. Sure, I could have opted to peel away some of that crispity-crunchity skin, but who in the world goes through the trouble of frying chicken only to tear away the skin and throw it away?

Even though I had stabbed myself in the roof of my mouth while eating the chicken, it was still infused with great flavors and the juices were flowing freely. I was thrilled. After many years of trial and error, this was my first successful batch of fried chicken . . . ever. I called my then-coworker, Michael, and excitedly asked him if he wanted some free fried chicken!

Let me tell you a little bit about Michael. Michael and I worked together as business analysts for a small company based out of California, where he resided. Because of the nature of the project that we were working on for our client, our home base was the Atlanta, Georgia area (where I resided anyway). This meant that Michael was holed up in a corporate apartment for four, five, six weeks at a time, after which time he would sojourn back home to California to spend time with his family. Then it was back to Atlanta for another stretch.

Often, during bouts of insomnia, I would find myself in my kitchen during the wee hours of the morning, creating dishes. Michael and another co-worker benefitted from my culinary masterpieces that I would bring into the office the next day because, invariably, I would make far too much for one single, lonely, non-dating woman to eat.

So it came as no surprise that Michael readily agreed to partake of my newly-fried chicken. I drove to his apartment, aluminum foil clad platter in hand, and proudly presented my masterpiece to him.

That night, I slept very well, knowing that I could now count myself among the millions of Americans who had the manual dexterity and wherewithal to fry up a decent pan of chicken.

The next day at work, my hopes for cooking greatness were dashed when Michael approached me solemnly, used his index finger to pull his lip up high across his gums and displayed a single broken tooth split in half. I was mortified.


It would come as no surprise to learn that this tortoise got ahold of my infamous fried chicken

My buttermilk beer battered crispy fried chicken did that. My cooking had actually maimed someone! That dangblasted (yeah...it's my southern coming out strong) chicken could very well be registered with the FBI as a lethal weapon. That every branch of the military did not approach me asking to use the chicken as a secret weapon against this country’s enemies is still a mystery to me. I vowed, from that day ‘till this, as long as I am a Black woman, to never, ever endeavor or make any half-hearted, simple-assed attempts to fry chicken again. Never.

So, if by some strange twist of fate you should ever find yourself wanting a batch of fried chicken, by all means feel free to call on Colonel Sanders . . . ask Popeye’s to lend a hand . . . you can even go so far as to pop in at the hot foods section of your local grocery store and even they may be able to help you out. But whatever you do, I beg of you, please, please, for the sake of all that is just and pure, don’t come running to me for your poultry fix! Not unless you have an affinity for mangled teeth and harrowing near-death experiences. Just ask Michael.