Today, according to my west coast brother, is National Fried Chicken Day. He suggested that he might threaten his laying hens with that fact to encourage them to lay more eggs. I shall have to wait 'til tomorrow to see if the threat worked. In the meantime, lets hear it for fried chicken. My parents raised chickens for a few years when we first moved out to the country; 1500 at a time, sold at eight weeks old for fancy fryer prices. Out of each sale we kept some butchered chickens for our own use. It was chicken every Sunday, for sure. Fried in the winter and barbequed in the summer. My father made wonderful bbq chicken. And we always had plenty. A half chicken per person was the typical portion. So imagine my shock, as a young lady, to discover that the wonderful man I had married had a fatal flaw. He hated chicken, could not, would not eat it. He also wasn't too keen on vegetables but I got around that by smothering them with cheese. It didn't work with chicken. But there were lots of other meats available so we got along. The only time he ever had to eat chicken was on a visit to a dear old lady I had become friends with when I taught in upstate New York. We went to visit her on a trip east one summer and she insisted we stay for lunch at which she served boiled chicken. Just boiled, no seasoning, very little if any salt. Even I had a hard time eating it, but bless my husband's heart, he ate a helping of that chicken. True love, indeed.
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