Simply Recipes
Theres something about fried chicken that draws out a primal response.
I buy intoallof it, and gladly.
Marinated, brined, spiced, batter-dipped, and double-breadedtheyve all got their virtues and memorable notes.
Simply Recipes
It tasted like her personality.
Rather, hers was vaguely Asian, with a rice wine-laced aroma.
I wish I had.
I spent a lot of my early childhood in that kitchen.
Id watch raptly as my grandma whipped eggs into submission and nimbly wrapped dumplings with no more than chopsticks.
I think about her every time I have bone-in fried chicken.
She loved the gelatinous tendon, gnawing on the bone for the marrow.
I remember all of this … but I wish I had paid more attention.
Meanwhile, I moved to New Orleans, another fried chicken paradise.
And one of those things was her fried chicken recipe.
Grandma, what did you put in your fried chicken?
I asked her a few years after she came back to the U.S.
My fried chicken?
Oh, this and that; nothing special, she responded, bemused.
I want to make it.
I struggled with the nuance as I struggle now to encapsulate a collection of moments.
I dont know … oyster sauce, fish sauce, probably sesame oil.
I dont remember anymore!
But what about ginger?
There was a lot of ginger, right?
Oh, yes, there was!
So much ginger, I used to fry it with the big chunks right on it, she recalled.
Next time you come home, Ill have a go at make it for you, she promised.
She was as good as her word, but sadly, the chicken wasnt.
Is this like it?
shed ask with each batch.
As a great home cook, it was alwaysgood, but it just wasntit.
And it wasnt my taste memory failing mesomething vital was missing, something deep.
Over time, we stopped talking about it.
That none of us could share this as our family grew through love and marriage.
A lost treasure, adrift in a forlorn sea of our memories.
