I Want My Grandma's Fried Chicken

There are certain experiences in life which leave indelible imprints on our memory: our favorite sports team winning it all, the birth of a child, and Grandma's fried chicken. What is it about this phenomenon that makes our mouths water, taste it in our dreams and yearn for one more meal? Is it those memories of standing in her kitchen as a little boy, while the aroma of your favorite meal swallowed up that cozy ranch you used to beg your parents to visit, almost daily? Or watching the love and effort she put into every phase of the ordeal; from the homemade breading to the hand mashing of the potatoes? Whatever the case, a visit to Grandma's was always a magical experience.

Growing up, I had the very good fortune of living a very short drive from my grandmother. My father might tell you, too short. At any rate, I would harass my parents constantly, to go hang out at her house; not like my dad had spent the first eighteen years of his life living there, or anything. My friends were fun enough, but there was just something about spending a day, or couple of days, inside that home. There was always plenty to do, whether it be endless hours of Rummy and Yahtzee, building Lincoln Logs, or simply curling up on the couch watching our favorite soap, Guiding Light. The best part for me was, she always wanted me around.

I loved my family life and my mother was a wonderful cook, but I found the story of my grandmother's generation to be fascinating. I used to lie awake and wonder what their lives must have been like, living through the Great Depression and the Second World War. I would observe my grandfather, sitting quietly in his easy chair watching the news, or glancing at the Readers Digest, occasionally slipping outside the front door to pull on a Camel filter less smoke and was completely captivated with how this strong, silent man could make me feel so safe. I just l-o-v-e-d that place and the history wrapped up inside. 

There were benefits to being one of Grandma's favorites (it would make mom uncomfortable, because she felt my siblings were slighted from time to time), like going to the mall, or Woolworth's, going to a movie together, or running meaningless errands, just to have the company, especially after Grandpa died. We would go everywhere, just to go. And she would let me do things, like pound on her piano until her ears would bleed, dig through the bottomless candy dish, or play and play and play, until we both collapsed in a heap and slept long hours through the night. Being one of her favorites also meant she asked for me before she passed, one of the most difficult times of my life, only days after rushing home from college to be by her bedside.

All of that has changed now and she has been gone nearly thirty years. Not a week goes by that I don't think about those times, sitting in her tiny dining room gazing in wonder, as she put the finishing touches on another masterpiece. I long to have her offer up the first piece of chicken, the leg, my favorite, and ask me to be polite and pass the gravy, just one more time. I often times smell those smells, see her smile and hug her in my dreams. And I miss her...every day.

Until tomorrow,

Scott