This July Fourth was worthy of writing about. I was glad to have the day off and enjoyed sleeping in a little bit. As usual with my best friend, we prepped food for two days before. We had plans to visit her Dad and her husband’s family. That meant that we were preparing a full lunch at her Dad’s house and we were bringing the salad and dessert for her Father-in-law’s house. Let’s be honest here, no matter how great a cook you are, sometimes the stars don’t line up and your recipes turn into NIGHTMARES.
The horror of this holiday will haunt me for a while. BTW…last year wasn’t so great either. My best friend and I had pneumonia. So we laid in bed convalescing. I couldn’t even tell you what the rest of the family did. And, and, and this year, due to extreme drought across southeast Texas, the neighborhood fireworks were cancelled. I sure hope next year redeems itself with a dazzling and delicious Fourth of July. But I digress!
Let me start by giving HUGE props to my dearest friend (so close that I normally call her my sister). She is truly a talented cook. She knocks my socks off on a regular basis. The one area we sharply disagree is the use of seasoning. She prefers to salt her food at the table and likes to use family blends of herbs/spices that aren’t always my favorite…like nutmeg in mashed potatoes or cumin on pizza. That aside, we rock out in the kitchen. It’s fun and often times creative, adventurous and inspired.
For some reason that I don’t recall at the moment, this year she decided to try making friend chicken for the first time. In case you have never made fried chicken at home, this is way more challenging than it sounds. Southern women spend years, decades, even generations perfecting the family recipe. One must have the proper equipment and little magic to achieve perfectly fried chicken. We tried. We really, really tried. My hope in sharing this ordeal with you is that perhaps you can learn from our mistakes.
My friend procured her mother’s beloved recipe just before she died last year. So, we thought for sure we were on the right track. Her husband has never been a fan of the greasiness of friend chicken. We hoped with this treasured family recipe that we would be able to convert him. We discussed the process at length the days leading up to it. I wrinkled my brow when she told me that the seasonings were cumin, oregano, nutmeg and “a tiny pinch” of cayenne. I was totally down with letting the chicken soak over night in buttermilk (fairly traditional in Southern recipes). We agreed that cast iron was the best option since we don’t own a deep fryer. We discussed the possibility of removing the skin but decided to leave it on for some crunch insurance.
The day of, we traveled down the road to her Dad’s house. Thinking ahead, we took the chicken out of the fridge for about an hour to let it come up to room temperature. After a dip in the pool, we got started. You know how when you are watching a horror movie and the young, drunk couple decide it would be a good idea to go camping in the middle of nowhere next to an abandoned slaughterhouse while the single friend is freaking out? Everyone in the audience is screaming in their heads, “Noooooooooooooo RUN AWAY!” Yeah, this was the moment when I started feeling like the single friend, worried but unwilling to leave her best friend’s side.
I walked into her Dad’s house to discover one cast iron skillet, a non-stick frying pan and a shallow metal pan. My first thought was, “This is NOT going to work.” How am I supposed to maintain frying temperature with three different pans on two sizes of burners? I didn’t have a frying thermometer or an instant-read meat thermometer so I had no idea when the meat would be cooked through. I shook off my fears and decide to do my best. I tried all the tricks I knew to calculate the frying temperature. I put a wooden spoon handle in the oil to check for bubbles. I added a tortilla chip to see how fast it turned brown. Nothing helped. All three pans were different temperatures. The fear was really starting to bubble in my veins. No time for fear, we had three chickens to get through and eight people were hungry.
We began with the wings. She starting the breading process and I was fry cook. I couldn’t see any seasonings in the flour but I didn’t dare question her. This was after all a family recipe and you don’t stomp on people’s memories, you know? The pan was too shallow and the oil was too hot. The wings burned and I was deeply afraid the meat wouldn’t be cooked inside. Husband comes in the kitchen and wants to help. We send him home for a thermometer and carry on. I dropped more chicken in the non-stick pan. It’s too cold and I know that it will just be blonde crust that is greasy. I tried to finish the cooking in the cast iron pan but it was too hot. I was crying on the inside. Losing my cooking mojo is truly one of my worst nightmares.
As we make it through the first batch, I tasted some of the fried batter that fell off in the oil. It was crispy, yes. The flavor though was like paste…crispy, fried, raw flour. My friend agrees to let me at least salt the chicken as it comes out. Husband returned with two thermometers, an instant-read meat one and a probe one. Neither of the thermometers really helped since the instant-read one didn’t work and the probe one couldn’t be clipped to the side. Oh the fear and frustration were really starting to take up residence now. If I could have run away to avoid the shame, I would have. We just carried on and hoped for the best.
The end result was pure disappointment. My worst nightmare came true. The meat was undercooked. The breading was crispy on the outside and doughy on the inside. The skin underneath was flabby and unappealing. Everyone took one piece and NOBODY finished or took a second piece. I hung my head in shame and could only utter a shy apology. Poor Husband, he was gracious and tried so hard to finish his drumstick saying, “You and my wife worked hard for this meal and I will eat it.” My heart was filled with culinary sadness. Worse yet, we had two more whole chickens to eat and it felt like punishment that I now smelled like a fast-food worker.
In an attempt to at least salvage the meat, we decided to finish the cooking in the oven. We piled all the chicken onto two baking sheets and hoped for the best. After about ten minutes, we started getting ready to leave for afternoon naps. We showed Dad the timer for another twenty minutes on the chicken and left instructions to take it out. I figured thirty minutes would be more than enough time to finish the cooking process. I have no idea yet how it turned out. Lord only knows.
To add insult to injury, we headed over to the in-laws for a dinner of burgers and dogs. A safe bet, right? Ummmmmm NO! The baked beans and corn on the cob were burned black. The caramelized onion topping was swimming in oil. The burgers were pink all the way through and I just can’t bring myself to eat a pink burger. I couldn’t even add salt to hide the flavor because it was huge rocks meant for grinding. Did I do something wrong? Why was I being punished? I am sure I will not be invited back for dinner after posting this on the web. They are lovely people but cooking is not their gift to the world.
On the upside, I made a decent caramel sauce and a chocolate sauce for Pecan Balls (vanilla ice cream topped with pecans, chocolate and caramel sauce). The Strawberry Rhubarb Crips with sugar cone and almond topping smelled great but I left before it was served. The layered salad was pretty tasty and the beer was ice cold.
I won’t let this stop me from ever frying chicken again. Next time, I will make sure I am set up for success with all the right equipment and a sure fire recipe. Sorry once again family. I feel like such a failure, however, I learned a lot.
There you have it. I am a pretty good cook most of the time but I am still human. I am sure many of you have similar experiences. Care to share any?
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