The Taste of Memory - Julie Farrar

I’ve tried it originally in my Mom’s army surplus heavy aluminum roaster that she used on a regular basis. I’ve tried it in the cast iron skillet of my husband’s grandmother. I’ve tried it in a Teflon-coated electric skillet. I’ve tried it in a brand new $200 extra large All-Clad skillet. I’ve tried it on both electric and gas burners. And until the day I die I will be chasing the taste of my mother’s fried chicken.

This is my life’s Holy Grail. Nothing fancy ever went into Mom’s cooking; it was basic comfort food all the way. She’d pull out that round roaster that I’m sure she got during the war and use it for stews, and roasts, and chicken. And one way or another there would be gravy for the potatoes. How hard could it be to recreate her fried chicken? Half of my life was spent sitting in the kitchen talking to her while she cooked dinner after work. Here’s the flour. Here’s the salt, pepper, and paprika to mix in the flour. Wesson Oil spit and splattered onto to the stove as she placed the chicken pieces in the pan, breasts in middle where it was hottest and the remaining pieces tucked tightly around the edges.

But what magic voodoo did I miss? Flour, salt, pepper, paprika, oil. It all seems so simple. In the hands of my mother those simple ingredients produced a culinary masterpiece. As I would bite into my favorite, the drumstick, burning steam that had been hiding underneath crisp skin would erupt toward my upper palate like a geyser. Juices would explode in my mouth and I would hear a distinctive “crunch” as my teeth clamped down to the bone. I would bathe my hand-mashed potatoes in a milk gravy made from the bits of skin that stuck to the bottom of the pan as she turned pieces during the cooking. So not only would I be lucky enough to eat the chicken, I could ingest it in liquid form as well.

It all seemed to simple. But in thirty years of trying I’ve never achieved that chicken nirvana. “This tastes really good,” my husband compliments me on yet another attempt. “I appreciate that, but it’s not right yet. Just wait until I figure it out. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about.” And so I keep trying. This time it’s too greasy. This time it’s burned. This time it’s not crunchy enough. Another time the gravy is flat. Or too thin because there weren’t enough crispies stuck to the bottom of the pan (a fault of this newfangled non-stick cookware). Everything else she’s made I’ve recreated. I have handwritten notes I made of chili, stew, and chicken casserole recipes when I’d call her from college for help. But nothing for fried chicken. How much oil to use? What temperature for the burner? Lid on or lid off? How often do I turn? Do I change the heat as it cooks? All these intangibles are lost forever.

My sisters are no help because this is not their meal. This was my meal that Mom made for me. She made it when I asked. And she made it every year for my birthday. And she let me help by shaking the freshly rinsed pieces in a paper bag filled with flour. And I thought that I would have plenty of time to learn the bits of magic she worked on the chicken. And I was wrong. So I keep trying, waiting for that one time when again I bite into a drumstick and feel the top of my mouth burn and hear the distinctive crunch as the juice flows over my tongue and down my throat. And Mom will once again sitting at the table with me.