Why do I hate fried Chicken?
AnswerWho does't like fried chicken? I don't. Read an excerpt from my memoir to learn why . . .
One particular Sunday, following church, she announced that we were having fried chicken for dinner. Curious, I followed her out the back door of the shed kitchen, wondering where the fried chicken would come from. I had often watched Grandma' Marie take chicken out her refrigerator to cook, but there wasn't a refrigerator in Ada Mama's house.
I sat on the steps and watched her move about. Chickens were running around the yard. She gave chase after one, snatched up a hen up by the neck, and began to twirl it about in the air. I laughed, thinking this was some sort of game until, in an instant, she held the head of the hen in a blood smeared hand, and the body of the hen ran aimlessly around the yard.
I stopped laughing.
She looked around at me, grinning and flashing that gold tooth, holding up the head of the hen. My eyes were locked on the chicken running around the yard without a head. Suddenly, the hen dropped to the ground and was still. Very still.
She threw the chicken head into a bowl. Blood was smeared all over her hands and shirt. She picked up the motionless chicken, and walked in my direction. I jumped off the steps. She quickly climbed the steps into the shed kitchen.
I tiptoed into the kitchen to look into the bowl with the head of the chicken in it. Red, veined chicken eyes looked up at me. I ran out the door, tripping over a foot, falling, my face hitting the ground. I laid there for a moment, catching my breath, when a rooster scampered over to me and started pecking at my face. I tried to cover up my head with my arms and legs, but the rooster kept up the attack. The hard, sharp beak of the rooster felt like a needle piercing my arms and hands. I jumped up to my feet, and ran into the woods. I found a tree to lean on. I slide my body down the truck of the tree until my butt hit the ground, and looked around to see if the rooster had followed me. I was too scared to go back to the house. I sat under the tree until Ada Mama came to get me for dinner.
I followed her into the house and sat down at the table. Before me was a plate of potatoes, peas, and a wing from the chicken I saw running around the yard without a head.
“I ain’t eating that!” I pushed the plate across the table and backed away from the table.
Search result for 'Fried Chicken' in Don't Tell Me What To Do: A Spiritual Memoir
Chapter 2: The Night She Died - 1957-1958
"...Fried Chickenicular Sunday, following church, she announced that we were having Fried Chicken for dinner. Curious, I followed her out the back door of the shed kitchen, wondering where the Fried Chicken would come from. I had often watched Grandma' Marie take chicken out her refrigerator to cook, but there wasn't ..."