my grandmother's fried chicken.
a restful musing
“All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were, what valley we ran through, what the banks were like, the light that was there and the route back to our original place. It is emotional memory-what the nerves and the skin remember as well as how it appeared. And a rush of imagination is our ‘flooding.’” - Toni Morrison
My childhood is a painful one that I’ve shared in glimpses and pieces. I’m transparent about it because I think that writing is my way to freedom, self-reclamation, and love. Today, though, I’m resting in a few memories that make me smile. And I hope, that in sharing a few, you find pieces of yourself.
Random bits of food mark my memories from being a Black boy in the late 1980s and 1990s. These bits are…interesting. The food doesn’t make sense and seems to be an assortment of made up things. Things that only make sense to me and my family. I suppose the assortment, the creativity, makes sense because there is no creativity on this earth like the creativity of poor folks determined to survive. (Take that British bake off) When you are given less than nothing and able to make something beautiful…it’s magic of the highest order.
Fried chicken on Sundays
Fried Catfish. And spaghetti
Aurelio’s
Watermelon with salt
That tuna with the boiled eggs and onions
Veal parmigiana in that frozen package
My father loved BLT’s
Hot dogs. And lots of pork n beans 🤢
My mother ate pecan sandies
Frosted Flakes and Doritos (leave me be)
Cornbread
That corn dish my father would labor with on the stove that was sweet.
Food helps me remember days gone by where I was happy for bits of time. When I miss home, and miss younger me, I make some of the dishes that wind through my memories. And, I have this memory of my grandmother. We didn’t get to see her as often as I liked, but my memories of her are mostly positive. I remember that sometimes she would fry this chicken. I don’t know how she did it, my mind sometimes tells me that she used to use some kind of concoction with regular flour and pancake mix, but all I know…is the chicken she made was always juicy and sweet. I’ve never had anything like it in my entire life. I miss my grandmother’s fried chicken today.
I miss the Robert that I was back then, and wish I could go back and tell him:
that we made it.
We have enough food to eat. We buy books all the time. And. People buy us books. Companies send us books to promote on podcasts. Yes. We actually talk in front of people these days. We didn’t get that pager that we always wanted, but we do have an iPhone. We read for hours. People miss us. People actually love us. We are on our way to becoming DOCTOR Rob. Whoa. We fly on airplanes every year. And. We have our own bed now. We write poetry. Songs. Oh. We play piano quite magnificently. Life isn’t perfect. Grief is stronger than it was. And. Even though we live alone, we are never really feel alone.
Dear younger Rob who eats delicious Grandma’s chicken, we made a home.
Remembering is hard work. What foods remind you of home?
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The memory you share of your grandmother's fried chicken took me way back. My grandmother and great-grandmother raised me from an early age, and all good food memories come from Nana, my GGM. Our household did not splurge much on desserts, especially since Nana was an excellent cake baker. Yet, I distinctly remember Vienna Fingers cookies in our kitchen. It seemed to be my Nana's indulgence along with her daily cup of Sanka, as my grandmother's sweet of choice was butter pecan ice cream. Because I was a child who had gone through some things way too early, I was a little spoiled, so I was sometimes the recipient of one of those coveted cookies. I can't pass them in the supermarket without thinking of her, Sanka, and the love she so clearly showed to me. My Nana's chicken (and everything else!) was probably the bomb, but 49 year old me remembers those cookies the most.
Honeysuckle’s bring me back home. I used to drink the nectar from a bush in our schoolyard with my best friend in the times in between when everything was safe and without demand