Texas Fried Chicken
Help, help. The sky is falling
There is one particularly clear memory I have of being out in the chicken yard one day watching Granny Cooper grab a hen, and then give it the old propeller twirl to break its neck, so we could fry it for dinner. That old decapitated bird must have run around in chaotic circles for thirty seconds before it finally collapsed in a heap of headless neck spurting blood and crimson feathered dust.
That was when I finally understood what she meant by telling us kids that if we did not behave ourselves she would “just have to wring our necks.” This particular threat, being far worse than a swat with a dead salt brine fish from my Italian Grandmother, forevermore deserved my full attention when my poor behavior warranted the sudden eruption of those dreaded words.
But after the hand wrung decapitation, the truly difficult part of the ordeal is to then pluck the darn thing in a task where pliers don’t even work very well. So to this day when I see a few feather quills sticking out of the wrinkled skin on a pre-packaged supermarket bird, I can’t help but think of that particular sanguine French guillotine style execution, and still find it just as physically difficult to yank off those aesthetically unpleasant little stumps.
Now serving: Poulet sautés avec des plumes.
On a lighter note, I once had a patient who told me he was so emotionally stressed that he felt like he was “running around like a chicken with its head coming out.”
Obviously, he would have gotten that epithet correct, had he had ever lived near a barnyard.
Moore farm near Ogelsby, Texas