Fried Chicken

Once, I remember, Grandma Hartman moved slowly through the gossipy, clucking chickens and she swiftly swooped in with a bent hanger wire and pulled out a hapless, squawking pullet upside down by its legs and carried it flopping to the chopping block. Suddenly quiet, with its comb perched atop a head on a neck crimped over the edge of the block, the bird blinked and darted its eyes and beak right and left just before Grandma whacked down the stained hatchet and sent the head flying over by a boiling vat of water. The body flopped and squirted blood around the chicken yard strewn with chicken droppings, corn cobs, feathers and loose dirt. Near the wide open eye in the dead pullet’s head, Grandma dunked the body in the vat of boiling water. After it cooled a bit, she wiped the white Leghorn feathers off the legs and body with her hands and flung them into the chicken yard. Next the naked chicken was gutted and washed. The joints were severed into thighs, necks, breasts, backs, and wings, nearly ready for Grandma’s frying pan.

After rolling the parts in flour, Grandma heated lard from a can in a cast iron skillet and fried the chicken in spattering, hot grease. Then we participated in rural America’s customary feast of fried chicken, okra, corn on the cob, and green beans cooked with a strip of bacon or a hairy (not really) ham hock. The adults talked about the bible, people, politics, weather and any kid could sit on any lap and be hugged and loved. Fed and content, my cousin Edwin and I went outside and I sat on him before we saddled the horses, hunted arrow heads or played in the ruts of the Santa Fe Trail. Maybe we just talked and talked. Now, it’s profound to remember those treasured times when we were loved, protected and secure.