I'll Take That Chicken Fried, Please.

It all started when my mom accidentally swiped my manual can-opener when she was here in February.

Too cheap to buy a new one since we'll see her in the next week again, I just pulled out the electric can opener in the interim. Not a big deal, except, as I discovered late Saturday, it does not open the #10 cans in which my beans are stored. This meant that there would be no homemade chili on Sunday.

On Sunday morning, therefore, Himself and I were required to have the following conversation:

"What do you want me to make for dinner?"

Himself: "You know what sounds fantastic? Fried chicken and mashed potatoes."

(picking my jaw off the floor - I've known the man for TEN YEARS and had no idea he liked fried chicken). "Um, okay, next choice, I don't fry things. I'm terrible at it and I have no idea how to make fried chicken."

Himself: "Oooh yeah, that sounds fabulous. And it's not hard. C'mon. Please?"

I had no better idea, sadly, and I cobbled together enough pieces of chicken with bones and skin for Himself's liking - and (bonus) two boneless, skinless chicken breasts for me. Yes, I realize frying them eliminates the nutritional advantage, but I don't eat skin. Ever. I even pick it off my wings when I eat them.

Several hours later, I had modified a recipe from my go-to-for-everything-I-have-no-idea-how-to-fix cookbook. It promised to be moist and fabulous. Since I haven't had fried chicken in more than 20 years (my mom quit making it and I don't do skin on chicken or fried foods unless they are french fries, in general), I wasn't even sure how it was supposed to turn out.

I brined the chicken parts in a ton of salt for an hour. Then I marinated it in buttermilk and onions. Then I shook the pieces in a bag containing flour, cayenne pepper (enough to flavor, not to burn you), pepper and salt. Then I let them "rest" to dry off.

After pouring entirely too much oil into the frying pan and realizing my candy thermometer was taking on oil at an alarming pace (time for a new thermometer - it's hard to read the mercury in the thermometer when you are trying to read it through an increasing amount of vegetable oil), I got started.

No splatters. No burned anything. Crispy crust. I even tossed the onions in the flour mixture and fried them, I was having so much fun.

The moment came to taste it. I cut into one of the breasts. Moisture oozed out. I tasted it. It was heavenly. No super thick crust, no skin, super moist meat. Perfectly seasoned. Woodstock loved it. Himself, who had the skin version told me, "See? Fried chicken is easy." (I'm not sure I'd classify a four-hour process that involves heating oil to 350 degrees easy but I let it go). He also loved it.

I even made *gasp* fried chicken country gravy. I do not like fried chicken country gravy and made Himself taste-test it, but it turned out well enough. Mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus (there had to be some redeeming factor health-wise to the meal) rounded out the dinner. I made an apricot cobbler from last summer's apricots for dessert.

Fried chicken won't become a staple in the house (just because I liked the results, doesn't mean I'm willing to start a frying frenzy nor develop a craving for fried chicken), but it's a nice ego-booster once in awhile to figure out that one can indeed make something that seems so daunting.