As the saying goes, no good deed goes unpunished. Never has that statement been truer than when I tried to make a homemade fried chicken dinner for a friend in need.
My good deed starts out with high hopes. I signed up via mealTrain to help out a baseball team mom who is battling breast cancer and going through chemotherapy. mealTrain allows the community to sign up in advance to help out people with challenges — surgery, illness, deployment, new baby, condolences — allowing friends, family and the community to coordinate/schedule support in the way of prepared meals.
I was thinking “a homemade meal is worth at least 3 weeks off that purgatory sentence I keep racking up”. Oh, but the price I would pay. I would have to cook. And we all know how much I love cooking.
I purchased all the ingredients to make the chicken rub — all 13 of them.
My recipe usually calls for three ingredients: 1) drive up to speaker box; 2) order and pay for chicken; and 3) take bucket home for everyone to enjoy. With 10 additional steps in the process — not including the overnight soak in buttermilk and the frying part — I should have known I was in trouble.
I purchased chicken drumsticks and breasts. I think the package was mislabeled because what I ended up with was pterodactyl legs and breasts that would fill Pam Anderson’s (pre-reduction) bra. And then some.
I followed the instructions for the chicken prep. The 13 spices made me very sad I hadn’t opted for my usual 3 step process. It was incredibly messy, halfway through I had to stop to make more rub and my kitchen reeked of buttermilk.
The frying was no better. I used tongs to turn the chicken, but pterodactyl legs are decidedly impossible to move around with only one set of tongs. And without splashing HOT grease everywhere. The DDD cup breasts were no better. Every time I touched them, the amazing rub on the skin would come off and float around in the grease, sending a mocking hiss at me as it over-crisped in the oil.
Once the chicken was done, I attempted a bit of plastic surgery, reattaching the floating skin to the pieces of chicken. Sort of a frankencluck, if you will. (I’ll tell you who was frankenclucked, people. It was this chick and the ones that had been frying).
I believe my only saving grace for this meal was the homemade buttermilk biscuits. And the corn on the cob cupcakes.
Perhaps I earned a few get-out-of-purgatory-early points after all.