The working title for this post had been, "I Can't Fry Chicken to Save My Life". Well, truthfully, it was more along the lines of , "I Can't Fry Chicken for Sh!t." I was quietly composing a whiny post in my mind as I struggled along at the stove trying desperately to follow Alton Brown's procedure for perfect chicken. I've always considered fried chicken to be the ultimate yardstick for a cook's abilities. Kind of the official certification for motherhood. I mean, who doesn't want to sit down to a plate full of mama's fried chicken?
I'm not so good at it. I've tried time and time again, although I must admit each attempt has been spaced by a multi-year interval. It's just so discouraging. And messy. And unhealthy, and most of all smelly.
I've read that the odd, over-sized breast of our modern chickens creates some difficulty for chicken frying because they are out of scale with the rest of the bird and don't cook at the same rate. Many recipes have recommended buying a whole chicken and cutting it up yourself to alleviate this problem to a certain extent. I'm serious about this chicken thing, so yeah, I bought a whole stinkin' chicken. Being the modern girl that I am, I cranked up You Tube for a couple of lessons on cutting a chicken into eight pieces. Success! I wish my knife had been sharper, and there were a few ick moments but I prevailed.
It didn't seem to be going as well with the actual frying part, though. They pieces were much darker than I would have liked (but not actually burnt). I guess I had a problem with my oil temp because the outside cooked a lot faster than the inside. I brought the platter to the table while announcing that an emergency trip to McDonalds might be in order. But, guess what? It was pretty dang good! I don't think I'm sticking with Alton's recipe...but fried chicken is going to be on the menu again soon. I think I may just conquer this one afterall. And then you can all call me Mama.
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