Day 52: My Secret Love

I have a love affair with fried chicken.  I'm not proud of it, but it's true.  I know it's bad for me.  Just like I knew kissing Stephen Gray when I was in 4th grade was bad for me, but I couldn't help myself.  He was just so cute. And I was 10.  And he was cute.  And my friends dared me. 

But I digress.

Why am I so drawn to fried chicken?  I blame my grandmother, and then my mother after her.  They made the best fried chicken you have ever put in your mouth.  Frying chicken was an art to them.  The cutting of the chicken, the flour, the seasoning, the oil, oh that luscious oil, all sizzling in that cast iron skillet.  I blame them for my love affair.

And then I moved to Louisiana.  And there was Popeye's Fried Chicken.  Where you got fried chicken AND those biscuits.  Those biscuits that they drown in butter and THEN bake them.  Biscuits made of soda and sour cream and butter.  Chicken.  And biscuits.

And now there's Canes.  And that sauce.  That sauce that taunts you.  So there's chicken, fried succulent goodness AND sauce.  I'd drink that sauce if people wouldn't look at me weird.  (I may or may not have licked the sauce out of the container before.)

All that to say, I know you're shocked that I am not making a spiritual analogy of this, but perhaps I am.  Sometimes I feel a little closer to God when I'm eating fried chicken.