My Grandmother's Fried Chicken

One of the things that has come up in random conversations this week is chicken.  Fried chicken, to be specific.  Lent begins this week, and traditionally, Catholics the world over give up something of great value or enjoyment to themselves.  Mine should have been fried chicken, but it wasn't.*

See, ever since I was a little kid, fried chicken has been a weakness.  A really, really big weakness.  My grandmother used to make it at home, using some old world Italian tricks, and it tasted phenomenal. (whether the tricks had anything to do with that remains to be seen).  We used to eat it cold with some  salt and pepper, usually at the beach.  At the time, I probably hated it.  Now, it's the way that fried chicken should taste, and what I compare everything to in an effort to make the best fried chicken myself.  To me, fried chicken isn't spicy, or overly complex, or anything that KFC would market (although, I am ashamed to admit, I have frequented KFC a few times in the past).  It's that slightly soggy crust, the salt crystals, and that cold, day-after frying taste.  And ever since then, I've been searching for that perfect recipe that mimics the exact tastes and textures of that chicken.  But like Platonic forms, it will probably never amount to anything other than debate, sorrow, and a false sense of accomplishment.

The point of this is simple: in food, we have reference points.  We have emotions tied to these reference points.  Because I was happy eating fried chicken when my grandmother made it, then I am (usually) happy when I'm eating cold fried chicken (like at 1:30 today); the taste has memories of happiness, so therefore when I come close to the taste, I remember the happiness.  Likewise, if I was sad or upset, that taste reference point and emotions will also come into play with negative effect.  Hence my almost severe aversion to anything formed into a fake patty of fish.  One day in elementary school I was pretty upset, and for lunch I had fish sticks.  Just that memory tie-in alone is enough for me to look with utter disgust at a box of fish sticks, flake-formed patties, etc.  (I almost vomited the last time I thought about a McDonald's Filet of Fish).

So a moral of this story is pretty simple: remember your food, remember your life, and try to get the people that you cook for to do the same.  If you can do that, then your meals will be all the better for it.

(*I'm floating between things to give up, but right now it's between either nail-biting, cursing, or pepsi.  I'll probably do nail-biting.  Maybe.  And yes, I should have made this decision by yesterday.  And yes, I didn't make that decision by yesterday.  So sue me, I'm trying!)