Since we have another pig being butchered soon Karla told me that we needed to start making room in the fridge. I dug around and when I found a package of frozen chicken my mouth began to water as I remembered all the fried chicken that my mom used to make when I was a kid. Fond memories.....Fond memories.
It always seemed like fried chicken came after a series of somewhat visually disturbing (yet tasty) Filipino dishes -- usually the ones that dad wouldn't touch. I can still see the look on his face when Dad entered the kitchen and asked Mom what she was making for supper. When she pulled the cow tongue out of the pot Dad's eye's bugged out a little bit as he quietly turned and walked quickly out of the kitchen.
We had also sorts of funky stuff to eat....and I don't mean funky in a bad way; it all tasted good. Just funky in that there was most likely no one else in town eating what was, to us, normal cuisine.
Pig's feet, tripe, chicken heart, cow tongue, and that funky little fish we used to eat as a snack. I don't know what kind of fish it was, but it looked like a miniaturized version of a sardine. Or more accurately, a slew of tiny minnows that had been dumped out of a bait bucket after a bad fishing trip. These tiny fish were dried, head and all, and packaged. We used to grab these tiny swimmers by the handful and chow on them. I honestly don't know if I could eat it now.
One food Mom made that I (nor anyone else) couldn't stomach was squid. You know that strong, over powering, smell that is ever so common at the Asian fish market? Yeah, squid. Well, that's at least the smell I remember the most.
Squid was the food mom cooked that literally drove everyone out of the house. It could have been 115 degrees outside and it wouldn't have mattered....It.....was.....bad.....Friends who happened to be over suddenly had to leave......Take me with you....
Come to think of it, if that stuff is cheap enough I should try it as catfish bait.
Fish eyes were another Asian delicacy that I couldn't stomach. It didn't smell bad, but I couldn't bear to eat something that was looking at me.
As a kindergartner I remember watching mom eat the eyes right out of the fish's head.....A quick slurp and an empty eye socket later Mom was happily eating away as I left the kitchen to find something better to do --- like stick a screw driver in a light socket or something.
One time I got in trouble when I went to school and told my classmates about Mom sucking the eyes out of fish and eating them.....I guess Mom was sensitive about her fish eyes. After that I never saw Mom eat fish eyes ever again.
Anyway, I believe how it worked in the Meyer household was that Mom would cook Filipino food until Dad ran out of either bologna or his beloved hot dogs with Hormel chili...Then mom would break down and cook something a little more in the way of midwestern fare.
And when Mom fried chicken ----- oh, man ---- it was the best. KFC, Church's, Strouds? Nah, they didn't have shit on Mom's fried chicken. Gluttony may be one of the seven deadly sins, but it was conveniently forgotten as I stuffed myself to the point of misery. Fried chicken was a treat that you didn't get very often. You had to take advantage of the moment.
"Tera, Toby, how does fried chicken sound?"
"GOOD!!"
Awesome. I throw the chicken in the microwave to defrost and have Tera look up how to fry chicken.
Nope....I don't have a clue but, hey, how hard could it be?
The answer is: right up until frying it's very easy. Brine, flour, and seasoning.....Piece of cake.
Frying it however....
Growing up there were two places that I stayed out of: the garage and the kitchen. I don't know if it was the look on my face suggesting to everyone that I was absolutely clueless or what but I was not trusted in either of those places.
Tim, on the other hand, cooked all the time. He worked on his truck in the garage; a truck that he got his freshman year in high school. I was almost a senior before I got a vehicle.
One time I asked dad how Tim managed to earn such privileges. This was the same kid that forgot about a pot of eggs he was boiling. Not only did he burn the eggs to the pot but he stunk up the entire house in the process. This is also the same kid that wrecked MY car and knocked the neighbor's garage wall off it's foundation with his truck.
"Well," said Dad, "Tim just seems like he knows what he's doing."
Ah.....
Gotta give Dad credit.....At least he's honest.
Nobody told me that you needed a hazmat suit to pan fry chicken. What I also didn't realize was that if the grease is too hot it will burn the shit out of the outside of the chicken but leave it a cold, bloody, mess in the center. Thank God I only put one piece in the pan to experiment with.
The first piece of chicken that I put in the pan was placed there with a barbarian's attempt at delicacy. I received an unhealthy dose of grease splatter all up and down my arm.
"AHHHH......JESUS!!!!!!"
From that point on I adopted a tactic I call the "dump and jump". I stand a good distance away from the pan, lean over as far as I can, chuck the chicken in and jump back.
I would ease in with my fork, holding it before me as if I were a warrior on the battlefield.....All I needed was a shield and my ridiculously moronic look would be complete. With a shaky hand I try to turn the chicken over as carefully as I could.......TSSSSSS.....Splatter....
"Ah....Shit that hurts!"
I thought for sure that Toby was about to take advantage of this incredibly dumb moment as he pulled out his phone. I could just see the Instagram caption now....."Idiot cooks chicken"
Fortunately, Toby was just taking a picture of the frying bird carcass.
"Man, that looks good."
Well, ok then. Yes, son...Focus on the chicken.
It took me a while to figure out the right setting to cook with. I'd pull a chicken leg out, cut it, blood would run out from the center, I'd cuss and
I also learned that a berm home with small windows and no kitchen vent is ill equipped in regards to frying chicken. Smoke rolled, thick and light gray, and visibility was greatly impaired.....I had been in bars that didn't look this bad.
Tera: "Hey dad, I'm going to open the front door."
"Good idea, pumpkin....I'll open the windows."
Cooking and coughing, I keep working the chicken over. By the time I am finished I am totally dismayed. Each piece of chicken I had cut to see if it was cooked and, each time, I cussed as I put the chicken back into the pan.
Now, sitting on the plate, the chicken looked to be the victim of a botched attempt at dismemberment.
I didn't bother taking a picture, it was bad. The picture on the internet showed this plate of mouth watering golden brown chicken.
Mine? Well, in between black spots, it was a kind of brown color....Not golden brown, but brown...brownish.....dark brownish.....Shit....This is going to be a disaster.
But to my surprise, after a small exploratory bite, both kids chowed down. I was amazed as I watched this ugly, botched, charred bird get taken down one piece after another. They both had three pieces and the tell tale sign that I did alright was that Tera never got the ketchup, her solution to all things food, out of the fridge.
Wow....Just.....Wow.
I look around the kitchen.....Flour everywhere (not real sure how I managed that). Smoke still hanging thickly in the air. Grease splattering out of the pan and the plate of ugly bird almost completely gone.
I rubbed my burnt forearms and smiled....Hell, I did alright. I did alright. I didn't do Mom's fried chicken any justice, but I did all right...
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