For your enjoyment, here is a story about chicken. And rabbits. This brings me to 8252, or slightly behind schedule. I'll need to keep writing tonight to catch up.
There was nothing in the world that tasted like Grandma's fried chicken.
Roger had spent his entire life eating that chicken. He'd never found another fried chicken that tasted anywhere close.
And he'd looked. He'd tried lots of other chicken, made by various large chains and small restaurants, offered by friends from their own kitchens even. he had stacks of recipe books on how to make old fashioned fried chicken, new-fangled fried chicken, and healthy breaded chicken baked in ovens made of regional clay and artisan bread crumbs. Somehow there was never the range of taste, the breadth of crispiness, or the succulent juiciness of Grandma's.
Now Grandma was gone.
He'd gotten the call at two this morning. Grandma, who had always been so hale and hardy had fallen down the stairs and hit her head quite badly. She wasn't expected to survive.
Roger sat at his kitchen table staring out at the old oak tree that was currently in the midst of changing colours, preparing for winter. The second call had just been answered, and yes, Grandma had passed away from her injuries. Overwhelmed by grief, not sure what he should do next, all that Roger could think about was that fried chicken.
He didn't see her very often any more. Roger had moved across the province for a job a few years ago, and so the opportunities for visits and chicken were limited to the major holidays. It had been a month since he'd tasted that chicken, on the September long weekend. He'd been looking forward to it again in a couple of weeks, at Thanksgiving.
Where would holidays be held now, he thought. The grandkids lived all over the country now. His parents' generation were mostly in Florida at this time of year, spending the winter in warmer climates, avoiding the snow. Would he and his family need to fly south for Thanksgiving and Christmas? Would his parents still want to come back north if Grandma wasn't here as incentive?
Most importantly, what would they eat?
His longing for fried chicken was so intense that Roger would swear later that he could taste it as he thought about it. It was so very good, crispy, spicy, and hot on his tongue. He felt the roof of his mouth burn as it did if he didn't wait long enough for it to cool off. He absent-mindedly wiped imaginary grease from his chin with his fingers, and then wiped the fingers on his pant leg.
"Napkins!" His grandmother's voice was so strong in his head that Roger actually jumped up from the table. "Use the napkins! Don't wipe your fingers on your clothing!"
Roger smiled. He missed her already, with her quick wit and sharp eyes for any transgression from her strict definition of the world. Old fashioned, yes, but in that reassuringly old fashioned way that grandparents had of keeping the world in order and the craziness of every day life making sense in the family.
The phone rang again. With a deep sigh, Roger reached for it, knowing that now is when the serious planning for the new world order would begin.
After days of emails and phone calls and haggling, it was decided that Grandma would be buried in the hometown she loved so much. She had never moved, despite the enticements of life in Florida with her kids, or the idea that she should at least move closer to one of the grandchildren so they could look after her. She'd been born in that house, she'd often remind them, and she was damn well going to die in it. The least they could do was bury her there as well, and give them all an excuse to go back once in a while to check on how it had changed.
Roger had phoned the local hotels to see how many of the family could be lodged close to the house. The house itself would need to be cleaned out, organised, updated for sale. Everyone agreed it would be best to stay elsewhere, but everyone would pitch in with the clean up. Hopefully it would keep the stay as short as possible for those who needed to get back to work.
Melinda, Roger's sister, was in charge of the funeral arrangements. Cousin Frederick was calling realtors. Teamwork, as grandma used to say, was the key to efficiency. Wasting time was a sin. Wasting anything was terrible. She'd be so proud of how everyone was pulling together to get this done.
By the end of the week everything was arranged. Roger packed up the car with his wife, the kids, and just enough luggage to see them through this. And then the long drive to the hotel began.
They were driving at night, so thankfully the kids were sleeping for most of the trip. Roger took the wheel, and Anna slept fitfully in the passenger seat. Without traffic the trip took less time than Roger expected, and he wondered why he had never considered this before. It would have made visits much easier to arrange.
It was early morning when they arrived at the motel. Roger and Anna carried the kids in to their room, and tucked them in. The parents collapsed into their own bed, and Roger was asleep before his head hit the pillow. He remembered thinking, briefly, before sleep overtook him, that he could really do with a bite to eat. Somewhere between that and darkness he smelled the distinctive aroma of cooked fried chicken.
The next morning they met up with the rest of the family at a local greasy spoon for breakfast. Stories were exchanged about the various trips that were taken to get here: planes, trains, and cars were all mentioned. They lingered over coffee and chocolate milk, and eventually, with the waitress (an old school chum) well tipped, they all headed out into the cold to Grandma's house on the hill.
The house was exactly as Roger remembered it. Ceramic rabbits were everywhere. Grandma had always liked rabbits. He was sure that everyone would be leaving town with a trunkful of rabbits when they were done. Old books lined the walls in the hallway, and the kitchen was covered in tins and cooking utensils. It almost looked like Grandma could be walking through the door to prepare them dinner at any moment.
Alas, it wasn't to be. The family started by wandering around, picking up various items, and setting them back down. Stories were told about how Grandma had done this with the spatula or that with the Complete Works of Shakespeare. Everyone laughed or cried appropriately, and meandered around their memories in the company of the relatives.
Eventually thins needed to be moved, and to be cleaned. Everyone had brought boxes, and they sat them down, names clearly marked in black marker on the outside. Several boxes stood off to the side, with Goodwill spelled out in big letters. Garbage bags were stakced up on the counter for items that they couldn't do anything with. Slowly the sorting began.
When the clock in the living room struck three, everyone put their boxes aside, washed their hands, and straightened up as best they could. Most had brought a change of clothes with them, and they lined up outside of rooms to try and get in and changed as quickly as possible. Roger Anna, and the kids piled into their car and headed back to the hotel for a fast shower and new clothes. Then they headed to the funeral home, as the solemnity of their visit finally sank in.
The service was lovely. Grandma would have loved it. Almost the whole town came out; Roger had forgotten how much his family had been involved at one time. They chatted with old friends, drank weak tea, and caught up on where everyone was in their life. It was good, and Roger found himself wishing it could continue.
It did, after the service. Anna took the kids back to the hotel, but Roger and many others filed into the local bar, and sat down to refresh their memories over tall glasses of beer. Each drink came with a story, and by the last call everyone was laughing and telling tall tales of Grandma and all the things she had accomplished in her life.
Finally, several days later, the house was cleaned and emptied, a bright green for sale sign on the front lawn. Several carloads had gone to Goodwill, and several more had ended up at the dump. Roger and his family packed their boxes into their car and began the long ride home, back to the mundanity of their everyday lives.
Over the course of the next week, the boxes were slowly unpacked. Various knick knacks and memorobilia worked its way into drawers and cupboards and china cabinets. Roger and Anna took turns finding new homes for Grandma's items, the ones they'd felt important enough to leave with. Even the kids had chimed in a few times; Roger had no idea they;d be so attached to the old junk that theyd seen for years only at Grandma's house.
At the bottom of one box, Roger made an interesting discovery: Grandma's little tin recipe box. He was surprised when he saw it. He didn't realise it had been meant for his house, and had assumed that Melinda would have taken it. He held it in his hands, a small dented box with chipped orange paint, rabbits dancing around the outside of the lid as if excited to see what was inside. Roger ran his finger along the outline of one of the more faded rabbits, smiling as he remembered Grandma going into this box time and time again before cooking her dinners.
A thought occurred to Roger. He stared intently at the box, as if it could reveal its secrets by sheer willpower. Could it be that the recipe he loved the most, his Grandma's world famous fried chicken, could be in this box? Could he really be the holder of the most important secret that the family ever had?
He couldn't quite bring himself to open the lid. He really felt he should phone Melinda, see if this was something that had gotten into his box by mistake. But then he'd never know what it was about that chicken that made it so good. He could be the one who makes the holidays special now; he could become the cook of legend and fame.
Tentatively, he opened the box. His finger traced back through the index cards, stopping at F. Roger held his breath, flipping through the cards until he came to one titled "Fried Chicken - Special Recipe". He pulled it out, his Grandma's handwriting instantly recognisable and familiar.
The card was yellowed with age, but relatively clean and tidy. In Grandma's very delicate script was written with great care:
365 Main St
555-5555
Family bucket
Original Recipe - Extra Crispy
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