During our marriage I produced some outstanding fare such as ratatouille, beef stroganoff, P.F. Chang knock-offs and cheese-torte. But, I’ve fallen short on passable fried chicken. I’ve searched through church cook-books (including Mom’s vintage Settlement Cookbook), Googled fried chicken recipes and even attemptedGeorgia’s Paula Deen’s. All were disasters.
With each failure Hubby grieved, “My grandma used to make the best fried chicken. How hard can that be?”
I’d glare, lob the tongs at him and retort, “How about you trying?”
Last night’s dinner was a test run for Father’s Day. I took one more crack at fried chicken-leg quarters. Won’t Hubby be surprised?
The recipe called for a marinade of buttermilk, spices and herbs. Good stuff, right? After two hours, I drained, dredged with flour, salt and pepper, and dropped the pieces into hot oil. The directions read, “Fry ten minutes on one side, flip and ten minutes on the other.” I turned my attention to the veggies, but kept one eye on the chicken.
Perhaps, I should have kept two eyes on the chicken. I swear I checked Facebook for only a minute when the smoke alarm sounded. I turned the heat down and flipped the blackened legs, but the other side turned dark in a split second. These babies were done!
According to TV’s “Chopped,” presentation appeal is everything and I served them burnt side down. Hubby and I cut into them, but horrors…raw chicken. I said, “I’ll just nuke them for ten minutes.”
Hubby forked one bite into his mouth and pushed his plate aside.
Phooey! I had transformed perfectly good leg-quarters into chicken jerky.
From now on it’s KFC and that’s what will be on the table for Father’s Day…and, no, I do not want your no-fail fried chicken recipe.