My parents would load all seven of us up and away we would go to Grandma's house for Sunday dinner. The Aunts and Uncles and their children would be there too. While we played outside with our cousins the women folk spent their time in the kitchen fixing the meal. I don't remember what the uncles, grandfather and my father did. I'm sure we didn't want to play in the vicinity of the adults. No supervision is a prerequisite to a good time.
I don't remember us ever spending time inside waiting; I don't think that was allowed. I don't remember running inside to get something to drink either. I do remember the obligatory fried chicken dinners. Big iron skillets covered the stove top with the chicken bubbling away in the oil. Golden brown and breaded chicken appeared on the table along with mashed potatoes, fresh peas, corn, green beans and biscuits. Gravy was always served made from the pan drippings of the fried chicken.
I occasionally try to recreate this meal minus all but two vegetables and the biscuits. This doesn't sound like an impossible feat. I don't know why it never works for me. My chicken never looks like Grandma's chicken. It's not golden brown and the breading never sticks to the chicken. It's horrible looking; never like the pictures of fried chicken you see in magazines.
Every time I try it I approach it differently hoping for better results. This morning I dug out an old iron skillet and got the oil nice and hot before dropping the breaded chicken in. I covered it with an iron lid and later returned to turn the pieces to cook on the opposite side.
Again the breading fell off in chunks, the inside was pink and I know it should be moist but I don't think it is to be moist because it is raw! Some pieces are too dark and even those pieces are too pink on the inside. I do not like the chicken I cook.
Another failure. Popeye's Chicken is less then a 1/4 mile from my house and that is where I will be should I crave chicken again.