This evening at Supper, I was taken on one of those memory jogs that lasts only a few seconds, but is as clear and vivid as any, by a question my wife asked her brother.
“How were your gizzards?”
Momma’s fried chicken.
Brenda would take a drumstick. Mom preferred the pulley bone and the liver. I would start with two pieces also, a thigh, and the gizzard. Nobody else liked the gizzard, but I loved it. Especially hot, and I would always eat it first. Frank would take a thigh and the back, and Dad would get the breast. Later on, Frank would begin to get the pulley bone, and Mom would take the other breast. I attributed this to favoritism until I realized that Mom had simply given up on the idea of stretching two meals out of one chicken.
So she was simply deciding to go ahead and let us finish it all in one sitting.
And boy could we eat. Especially when Frank and I were both in our teens. Dad would claim that it took so much to fill us up that our legs must have been hollow.
Momma‘s fried chicken is famous in our family for its seasoned crustiness, lovingly prepared, to tasty Southern perfection.
Even the gizzard.