“I Will Stop at Nothing for Golden Crispy Perfection.”

“I Will Stop at Nothing for Golden Crispy Perfection.”

Some subjects provoke controversy and it’s no surprise. Other things end up causing fireworks and it surprises the heck out of you. Since when did cooking chicken in vegetable shortening become so misunderstood?

 “I can fry really good chicken,” I texted to the Twitter-universe. “Right now I am standing in front of cast iron skillet and carton of Crisco.”

 Holy cow.

You think I’d tweeted I was going to boil my first born in it.

A woman in the middle of a 10-day cleanse replied, “Real Crisco? You’re dumping that into your blood stream.”

One mom tweeted, “Are you serious? Crisco?”

“Oh, sure,” I replied. “Down here, we rub it on everything from baby bottle nipples to Botox injection marks.”

Standing in front of the frying pan, I prepared for a ritual that Southern mamas have performed since 1911 when Proctor and Gamble first injected hydrogen atoms into cottonseed oil. The chicken had seasoned all day in the fridge. A baggie of flour, teaspoon of salt and pepper rested on the counter. In the pan, an ice mountain of vegetable fat melted into a simmering crystalline lake. It was beautiful. But the non-Southern Twitter world was equating my dinner with the time I planned a family volunteer outing to help install asbestos in the nursery at a day care center. 

 “Isn’t there a bill on the Congressional floor to stop this senseless desecration of poultry?”  “

 You just can’t fry chicken without Crisco.” With that tweet, my defense rested. I confess.

 For the last 20 years, mastering the art of frying unforgettable chicken has occupied most of my waking hours. I live for the day my son and his friends will tuck their size 12 flip flops under my dining room table and dine on the best fried chicken this side of Doster Road up to Ye Old Colonial. 

 “Thank you, Mrs. Miles.”

“Ma’am, can I please have another plateful?”

“Mrs. Miles, this chicken reminds me of my grandmother’s. She kept the recipe locked away until the day she died. The key lay wrapped in a tissue, tucked in her bosom 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Her will left it to my mother but when they opened the box – it was gone. Stolen off her death bed.”

 “Dreadful,” I’ll say and look upon his adolescent grieving head. “Here dearie, a juicy thigh perfectly seasoned with pepper, garlic powder and pinch of paprika, a salve for your saddened soul.” 

Some day the aroma from my frying chicken will wake long-resting Confederate soldiers. A dusty regiment of young men (albeit very gaunt and hungry) will form a winding line from the cemetery into my kitchen.

I’m a simple woman with a dream as wide as the red belt of states across the Southland.  A vision that’s almost reality thanks to Crisco, 500 cups of flour and two decades of trial and error. 

 Along with a fortuitous stumble onto an unlocked back door and 50 dollars to a locksmith.