The Fowl of the South: Southern fried chicken

[Gifted Gourmet]

article from Southerner.net

After responding to another thread on fried chicken backs, I read this, and a few other articles, on chicken parts.

Now everyone, Southern or not, has a chicken part which strikes their fancy .. The author of the article went so far as to analyze what the choice says about you .. see if you agree, disagree, or simply find her analysis humorous ...

Fried chicken is really beautiful -- just look at that gorgeous golden-brown covering and luscious tender meat! In addition to this, you just can't get commercial fried chicken that has the same wonderful taste as homemade. Fried chicken is a food of love and when the chicken is cooked on an assembly line, the individual attention to detail is missed.

What is the most popular piece of fried chicken? I took an informal poll of my friends and family and found that: 50 percent chose the breast, 24 percent chose a leg, a remarkable 12 percent chose the thigh, 7 percent chose the wing, 3 percent chose the innards, and 3 percent chose the back

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So, take a few minutes to read what your choice says about you in this riveting article ... a great piece on growing up in the South as well ...

[Lan4Dawg]

I knew that the world was going straight to "hell in a hand basket" when I walked in to a church fellowship hall after a Sunday morning service and found store bought chicken on the buffet table. I just knew that the good Methodist women in my family who were no longer w/ us were whirling devirshly in their graves at the very thought.

My grand mother played the organ at her church and would leave services as soon as the last note finished echoing through out the sanctuary to drive home as fast as her ancient Chevrolet and the Stone Mountain city police would allow in order to start her fried chicken. It had been marinating in a mixture of water, butter milk, & salt since before she left for Sunday School and she would then shake it in flour, salt, & pepper and fry it in hot Crisco, put it in to a cloth covered basket and drive back to the church. The only problem she would encounter was the traffic jam caused by all of the other little ladies who had run home to do the same thing. Actually she was one of the few women who stayed through the entire service as many of them--those who did not play organ or piano, sing in the choir, or keep the nursery--would either skip the service or leave during the sermon to run home and prepare the food for dinner.

There was also the one woman in the congregation whose sole purpose in life was to worry about whether or not there would be enough food. It did not matter if there were a half dozen tables absolutely groaning w/ enough food to keep the Huns fr/ attacking for a week she would be concerned that there might just not quite be enough to feed the assembled congregation and always had a contingency plan of several ladies who would return home to fry up more chicken, heat the casserole that was saved for Monday's dinner, or find some thing to feed those that did not find sustenance in the first pass through the line.

In the minds of these ladies bringing any thing that was not prepared by loving Christian hands in the sanctity of the home kitchen to a church social was a sin some where between murder and adultery and would get you booted out of heaven faster than admitting to not knowing the entire words to all of the verses of "Old Rugged Cross".

in loving memory of Mr. Squirt (1998-2004)--the best cat ever.

[Chris Amirault]

Now that is why eGullet is fantastic. Wonderful post, Lan4Dawg.

[Gifted Gourmet]

Beautiful story on Sunday fried chicken .. rather assume this was typical of many southern Sundays ...

But a question for you now, Lan4Dawg:

Have you ever experienced fried chicken since those days which compared favorably to your grandmother's chicken in this story?

[hwilson41]

My grand mother played the organ at her church and would leave services as soon as the last note finished echoing through out the sanctuary to drive home as fast as her ancient Chevrolet and the Stone Mountain city police would allow in order to start her fried chicken.

in loving memory of Mr. Squirt (1998-2004)--the best cat ever.

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Lan4Dawg, what a wonderful story. Thanks so much for sharing it. I have one question. I checked my Rand McNally, and there are two Stone Mountains, one in Virginia and one in Georgia. Which one are we talking about here ?

[Lan4Dawg]

Thank you for the kind words. As to your questions:

If I had found fried chicken even remotely comparable to that which my grand mother lovingly prepared do you think I would admit it? Why she would rise right up out of her grave and snatch me bald-headed! Perhaps there have been some preparations that could rival hers as far as taste (& btw, Melissa, I like how you put it--"experienced" as opposed to "tasted") but nothing compares to sitting around her dining room table on a Sunday after noon w/ a horde of relatives eating fried chicken, squash casserole, fresh from the garden green beans and tomatoes, rice w/ gravy made fr/ the chicken drippings, and those great big yeast rolls that she always forgot were in the oven until about half way through dinner and then would jump up fr/ the table and race in to the kitchen loudly lamenting her forgetfulness.

It was well in to my teen years that I realized that rolls were not supposed to be burnt on the bottom and chickens did not come w/ six legs.

As for the Stone Mountain to which I refer it is located in Georgia.

Oh & one thing I forgot. Grand mothers, especially Southern grand mothers always made certain that the chicken was cut so that there was a "pulley bone" for which ever of the youngsters preferred that particular piece. Note it is a "pulley bone" & not a "wish bone" down here.

in loving memory of Mr. Squirt (1998-2004)--the best cat ever.

Edited April 13, 2005 by Lan4Dawg (log)

[racheld]

WONDERFUL writing, L4D!!!! Conjures, conjures.

My first MIL taught me to fry chicken---black skillet (parted with one of her own slow-cured, crusty-bottomed ones in the name of love and authenticity), Crisco from a can, flour, salt and pepper (S&P were the ONLY two condiments in her quite considerable kitchen cabinets---if you don't count the cinnamon which she saved for sweet potato pie. And she was a GLORIOUS cook. Her chicken was a model, the essence, a very paragon of fried chicken, to be held up as the zenith to which we could all aspire. Her biscuits and cornbread (also black skillet) were tender, crusty marvels of breadhood.

And her desserts!!! She had a way with piecrust and cake batter that would make Betty Crocker hand over her apron. My soul still longs for the long-lost recipe (confiscated by a VERY quick, very sneaky SIL the day before the funeral) for her famous caramel cake, a tendercrumb, buttery, meltingly delicious golden poundcake with a poured icing which, coincidentally, had been cooked ditto black skillet. She could take the last smitch of flour in the bag, the crumbs of sugar left in the bowl, and the lid off a dried-out vanilla bottle, and turn out a dessert fit for royalty.

One of the funny memories of her wonderful chicken dinners is that the chicken was the STAR, and the rest just add-ons...That platter of golden-brown, crusty delight would be set down before family and company alike, accompanied by the most featherlight rolls, a can of heated Schoolday English peas, and a can of heated Pride of Illinois corn. (and don't forget the drained pineapple rings, topped with a coronary-busting tablespoon of Blue Plate and a big pinch of hoopcheese). The chicken and the dessert---that's what you came for.

So I learned, those days of Delta heat and no A/C, in that kitchen with one window over the sink, 10 square feet of counter space, and a yellow dinette set buttbumping you every time you moved toward the stove. I sharpened the knife, washed the carcass, cut it into fourteen pieces, (count 'em---2 legs, 2 thighs, pulley bone, two breasts, stripped of two small sections of boneless meat, neck, back-cut-in-two, 2 wings.

I soaked, I dredged, I carefully measured quantities and seasonings, heated the pan of shortening til it "browned a cube of bread" and laid in the carefully floured pieces (always the dark meat first, legs turned to fit against each other "saves space," with the bony half of the back in the same pan, with the liver tucked carefully beneath---livers have a way of choosing their moment, and it would blow skyhigh at the exact minute you took off the lid if you didn't capture it under that handy ribcage).

White meat came next, and was lidded, turned, uncovered, crispened, and set on a great mattress of "Scotch towls" to drain. It was wonderful chicken, tender and crisp and salty and just right. And I still cook it just like that, same skillet, same method, in a place faraway and a time so different.

My husband gets out of the car, comes into the house grinning. "I smelled fried chicken all the way out into the yard!!"

All's right with the world.

Edited April 14, 2005 by racheld (log)

[Gifted Gourmet]

If I had found fried chicken even remotely comparable to that which my grand mother lovingly prepared do you think I would admit it?  Why she would rise right up out of her grave and snatch me bald-headed!  .... nothing compares to sitting around her dining room table on a Sunday after noon

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There is nothing so sweet as family memories ... which the flavors and tastes seem to "lock" into one's mind ...

once again, Lan4Dawg, you have 'painted' us an image of southern living with your perfect use of words!

[Kevin Weeks]

article from Southerner.net

Now everyone, Southern or not, has a chicken part which strikes their fancy .. The author of the article went so far as to analyze what the choice says about you .. see if you agree, disagree, or simply find her analysis humorous ...

My favorite part is the wishbone (no, we didn't call it a pulley bone and I never heard it called that, and yes, I was born and raised in Tenn. and my parents in Al.). I drive a Camry, which for some reason seems to correlate.

Kevin

[racheld]

I knew some scientific study or some great institution would get around to it. And now it's happened!!!

This Hallowed Hall of Culinary Excellence has made the final breakthrough---linking a man's car to his preferred chickenpart!!!

Film at eleven. Symposia at Harvard.

[fifi]

Wow! I just found this thread. My, my, my. There are some dynamite word jockeys here. Thank you so much for adding to the enjoyment of my evening.

BTW . . . We always called it a pulley bone.