I tried once
feeling depleted and homesick
wet-eyed, hungry and
desperate for
my momma’s hug and smile
needing to taste and feel the comfort
of home
So, I tried to once
to cook
my momma’s fried chicken
but I lost myself in the memories

Momma’s ancient cast iron skillet
filled with hot
bubbling cooking oil
sits sentient
and hospitable like
a queen awaiting her court

An ordinary brown paper bag
filled with flour and
curry powder and
seasoned salt and
and my momma’s love
waits like me
champing at the bit
impatient and intoxicated
longing for that crunchy,
flaky, irresistibly
tender and juicy
bite of
my momma’s fried chicken

she shakes and gently
drops the breaded ambrosia
sizzling in the skillet
and I watch in awe of
my momma’s fingers
covered in wet clumps of flour
reaching in for more
those time-worn fingers
are magical
because
her fried chicken is divine
a favorite on heaven’s menu
no doubt

I salivate as she flips
those golden crusted
morsels and time shortens
her magical fingers
she knows I will grab the first wing
I will sneak out of the kitchen
and I will burn the ever-loving life
out of my tongue
but I can’t resist
the warmth
the love
the taste
of my momma’s fried chicken

Hospitality

3 thoughts on “Fried Chicken

  1. Nel says:

    Aww what a heart warming tale. I feel the same way about my granny’s cooking. I keep telling her to make a recipe book!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. eabmarshall says:

      I agree. My mom doesn’t have a recipe book. It’s all in her head. I don’t think she has ever used measuring utensils. She cooks with love.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Nel says:

        That’s the best kind of cooking!

        Liked by 1 person

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