Deep Fried Joy

Three worn plastic dishes side by side.  Seasonings stirred into flour to just the right sandy color.  Fresh farm eggs cracked, the golden yolk swirling into stark white milk.  Skillets warming.  Fingers caked with flour, goop meeting grit.  The soft sizzle of the oil that greets chicken to pan.

Such was the setting for last night's dinner preparations.  In each step, I could sense the presence and love of my mother-in-law.  Gone from this world two years now, I carry on the tradition of cooking her baby fried chicken for his birthday meal.

If June were here, she would have called Tim yesterday morning and invited him to a lunch he already expected to attend.  He would've eagerly counted the hours at work until the time to drive the short distance to her apartment, where the aroma of fried chicken would meet him in the parking lot.  Hearing him from the breezeway, she'd stand waiting in her small kitchen at a tiny table for two.  Her face would light up at his entrance and he'd envelop her in a giant hug, sneaking a chicken leg behind her back in one swoop.  They'd share a laugh and then a meal with all of his favorites.  The best part though, for Tim, would be her company.

I never attended a birthday lunch, it was their special time, but I can envision it in my mind from the stories he'd tell upon returning home.  Our gift was the fact that he never came back empty handed.  In a faded yellow tupperware container, her name written in cursive across the top, would be those tasty leftovers of fried deliciousness.  This container now lives in my cabinets and I smile upon the memories of the meals she sent to us each time I use it.

My hope is that Tim had a bit of flashback of happy memories with last night's dinner.  His smile, upon presenting him a plateful of crispy chicken, was worth the time spent, mess, and unavoidable grease pops that came in preparing it.  He was giddy with excitement as he bit into the crunchy, yet moist leg.  And it didn't bother me in the least that not a word was said until the very, finger licking, paper towel cleaning finish.

It was my great pleasure to bring him some comfort, a hug from his momma above, and a hefty dose of love on a plate for his birthday.  I pray it was as joy-filled for him, as his enjoyment made it for me.

Chicken legs at the farm house

Close your eyes.  What is the first food memory you can recall?

I heard this today on the radio, and although I didn't close my eyes because I was driving, I could see a vivid memory in my mind.  How special it is that the first bite of food, chorus of a song, or the scent of something, can bring back memories from your childhood as clearly as the day it happened.

For me, thinking about my earliest food memory, I'm taken back to a farm house that we lived in when I was barely 2 years old.  To my knowledge, there are no photos of this time; and in talking with my mom, she is amazed that I can remember at that young of an age.  It wasn't the house I grew up in, as we only lived there a short while.

As if watching an old movie, I can see the old house from my view of sitting in the highchair.  Mom is in the kitchen cooking and I'm by the table, chewing on a chicken leg.  Immediately my mouth waters, remembering that savory flavor.  From stories, I recall being told that I loved chicken legs so much I'd gnaw on it until it was smooth and bare.  And, much like a dog with a bone, I'd refuse to let go!

It must've been summer, as the windows in the screened-in porch were open and I could hear the sounds of the tractors on the farm.  I remember playing on that porch and watching the giant machines sprawl across the fields.  It's random, but recalling those memories brings about the smell of cocoa butter too.  My face had recently been burned and Mom was constantly covering it with a big stick of the lotiony substance, praying that it wouldn't scar.  To this day, if I smell cocoa butter, I'm taken back to that farm house.

I also have memories of eating in the living room and having tv dinners there with Mom and Dad.  I can recall the couch and the layout of the room, but funny enough have no idea what we were watching.  I remember the silver tin pan and the little cubby holes which held the food.  The memory is probably mixed with future ones but I can still taste the buttery flavor of the tiny peas and cubes of carrots.  Thinking about those packaged foods of childhood, I'm reminded too of one of my favorites, chicken ala king.  It came in a plastic pouch that I guess you dropped into boiling water to heat.  Mom served ours poured over toast.  I don't think they even sell that anymore but I loved the creaminess and comfort of that meal.

Thinking about childhood food favorites, my mind swirls with other memories... of Mom's huge fluffy biscuits, warm from the oven...of my great grandmother's sugar cookies and the sugary crunch mixed with the chewy goodness in that first bite...of Grandma Coons' sweet and different homemade spaghetti sauce...and of a steamy bowl of Grandpa stew that we pulled off huge chunks of soft fluffy bread to dip into....

There are a special set of early food memories with each family member I hold dear to me.  Food has a way of connecting us in the moment and in creating memories for us to recall years later.  It's probably why I get so much enjoyment in cooking for and sharing meals with the ones I love.  Writing this post has certainly made me hungry, and maybe it has stirred up some yummy memories for you too!