"I only just learned how to fry chicken
a few years ago." She says,
while lowering a plump, freshly-breaded tenderloin into
a hissing cast iron skillet roiling with oil.
"My mother never cooked it at home;
My grandma fried chicken all the time,
but she never wrote down recipes.
Now every time I make a batch,
I feel compelled to take a photo—
and share my success."
She says this last bit,
as if her triumph at the stovetop
won't last, that it might be
as fleeting as the whims of time
and passed-down teachings.
Her children walk in and out,
assessing the status
of waffles steaming in the iron
and crispy browned chicken
nestled next to golden rounds of waffles
in the warming oven.
————
I look on, silently.
I nod.
I am not concerned for her kids.
I already know this is no game of Chicken.
Her reclaimed culinary skill
and the worldly wonder of fried meat
atop buttery rounds dripping with local hot honey
won’t
--
skip
--
any
--
further
--
generations.
