Fry Baby Fry
My favorite food group is fried. French fries, onion rings, okra, summer veggies, founder, and green tomatoes. Don’t forget the fried mozzarella sticks, ice cream, and Twinkies.
I’m Southern. What can I say?
Last night, I tried to make Chicken Fried Steak, homemade gravy, and a pot of rice.
Tried is the optimum word.
I pounded the cubed steak with a rolling pin.
“What are you killing in there?” asked Scott, my husband.
I ignored him and continued.
I added seasoning, floured it, and placed it in hot oil. The smell permeated the house.
Scott asked, “What’s burning?”
I followed the directions for the rice, and twenty minutes later, it looked like soggy rice cakes, pillows of sticky white lumps that filled the entire pot.
Scott’s lips curled in disgust. “You don’t expect me to eat that, do you?”
I shooed him out of the kitchen and dumped my brick’s mortar invention in the garbage disposal.
I pulled out a boiling bag of rice and a clean pan of water and smiled. At least I could eat this.
Optimistic, homemade gravy shouldn’t be difficult to make. I used a little oil, the bits in the bottom, some flour, water, and a little milk. I scraped it together and tasted it.
Yuck. I had to salvage it.
I opened my chemistry cabinet and added a little of this and that, one by one. By the time I finished, it wouldn’t kill the dog, so it would be good enough for Scott.
When the plates were served, Scott said, “Where’s the chicken?”
“It’s chicken fried steak, not chicken.”
Surprisingly, Scott ate in silence. “Well, I ate it,” he said and headed upstairs.
There was the tinkling sound of what I imagined as Tums tablets being poured into his hand.
If only I had a license to kill, like 007.