Can you imagine a Southern church picnic without fried chicken? Those of us who scurry to get anywhere on time even when cooking is not involved feel particularly blessed with the option of the iconic chicken bucket. Within that cardboard is a pile of crispy outside, juicy inside, party-in-the-mouth food, calling out irreverently to the crowd before the preacher says “Amen”. Never a leftover, barely a crumb left for the ants to cart away.
Oh sure, I could go to the grocery meat department and grab a package of wings or legs. Beneath the plastic wrap, lined up like boot camp soldiers, uniform in color and size, the legs package feels substantial. These could be fried to golden brown and would look appealing on a platter. It would be cheaper, money-wise, maybe. But would it? If I shop, carry groceries into the kitchen, mix the batter, heat oil in a deep pot or frying pan (Yikes!), fail, start over…is it worth saving a few dollars for such an unnecessary risk? What is my time worth?
Only a generation or two ago, fried chicken was not so easy. First one had to acquire the fowl, which often meant heading out to the barnyard to seek out the slowest chicken. Once caught, the farmer, his wife or child (No kidding!) slaughtered and cleaned out the bird’s blood and inedible parts and never said anything like “Oh, gross!”. The preparer tossed the carcass into a boiling water pot for a few minutes to loosen the feathers, then spent 10 minutes (if well-practiced) plucking them out of the bumpy, yellow skin. The bird was transported to the kitchen where the cook cut it into pieces and prepared it for a cast iron skillet full of lard. The cook did not say, “Why can’t we just pick it up at the drive-through?”
Consider the garden. It began in spring with plowing and planting. Fertilizer, sunshine and water in the appropriate balance were necessary for plants to grow. Weeding on a regular basis was required, and harvesting at the right time ensured the best flavor. Someone had to pick, dig up, hull, shuck, peel or shell every piece of produce. Next the cook prepared and preserved the food in jars, cold storage, a root cellar or a smoke house. This preceded cooking for the dinner table!
Our great-grandparents were familiar with the origins of their food and the work necessary to acquire it. The garden and barnyard were their grocery store. Their vegetables were in-season, their meat was free-range, their butter was freshly churned and their bread was baked from scratch. I wonder if we are as grateful for what shows up on our plates as they were for what showed up on theirs?
John and Nora Luzadder,
my mother's parents. |
The Great Depression was a time of tremendous need. Those who had land to grow food were grateful for the ability to reap, literally, the fruits of their labor. Grandma tended her garden with a hoe and loving care. That rich West Virginia soil produced a vegetable crop year after year.
The scent of cooking green beans traveled through the kitchen on steaming spring water and fresh air breezing in through the screen door. Grandma cooked from scratch, and shared generously with family, friends and the occasional gypsy (before the word offended anyone). |
A typical country dinner consists of a meat dish accompanied by mashed potatoes and gravy and any combination of in-season vegetables, bread and dessert. It was a daily labor of love.
By the time I was born, modern appliances had replaced wood cook stoves, making some aspects of meal preparation less difficult. However, the good-sized garden was well utilized at Grandma's until I was grown.
My own attempts at gardening have rendered plenty of herbs, a fair number of delicious tomatoes, a sack of potatoes, some squash and enough okra to feed my family all they wanted-- about four times one summer. However, for the work we put into the process, we should have been able to feed ourselves and our neighbors.
Those experiences taught me that people who have gone before us were familiar with hard work and hard times. It takes diligence to produce three meals per day right there on the farm for even one family. In the hottest heat and bitterest cold my mother and her siblings never went hungry even in the midst of the Great Depression.
Those experiences taught me that people who have gone before us were familiar with hard work and hard times. It takes diligence to produce three meals per day right there on the farm for even one family. In the hottest heat and bitterest cold my mother and her siblings never went hungry even in the midst of the Great Depression.
Most modern families do not have the time or space for this kind of food-centered life. We drag in from a different kind of work, kids in tow, around 6 pm and head out for sports or band practice. We get home a second time to do housework and homework, prepare for the next work day, then collapse. If a dish takes longer than thirty minutes to prepare, it has to wait until the weekend.
Grandma and Grandpa loved their hard and purposeful lives. They were content with what they had. They were comfortable with the origins of their food even though it meant preparing fried chicken from roost to plate with all the fixin's.
I am comfortable with the bucket.
I am comfortable with the bucket.
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