A story poem that explores the relationship between the elixir of life…and what you’re willing to pay for it.
There are lots of good fried chicken joints in the world, and I’ll gladly chow down at any of the million places you can go…but there’s just no fried chicken like my mama’s…
Years ago, my grandmother (on my father’s side) asked to be served a chicken thigh (the dark meat section above the drumstick), but she couldn’t think what to call it. She said, “You know, the chicken’s hip,” to describe the piece. We, of course, have never called it anything else!
If the words “fried green tomatoes” transport you to the Whistle Stop Cafe, that’s just fine. If those same words also transport you to your grandma’s kitchen for a long-ago, late-summer Sunday supper, that’s even better!
Mardi Gras, King Cake…Crawlin’ King Snake? Now where did that come from? Laissez les bon temps rouler!