Fried Chicken

In my family, when we went on a long journey by car, there was always somebody who had to pee (if its a guy, he may have had to use a pop bottle LOL *dont judge*), many childish spats ("she's touching me!"), and no matter where we were going, there was always, Always, ALWAYS a container of fried chicken and a bag of white bread.

I'm not talkin KFC or Popeyes-- I'm talkin cleanin' chicken in one side of the sink, pluckin feathers, tucking back the wing, putting it in the adjacent sink, throwin seasioning 'til you can 'smell it', double dipping in the paper bag full of flour and dropping it in the grease til your eyes are watering.

Call it stereotypical, call it cliche-- I'll call it a comforting memory of my childhood. With 8 other siblings, I was lucky to get two pieces of chicken on a 13 hour stint to Alabama, much less think about trying to stop at Mickey-Dee's; Chicken was the only option. My parents always did what they had to do; we never went without. Traveling by car has a place in most of my favorite childhood memories.

In a couple hours, we'll be on the road, Charlotte bound. I'm sitting at the dining room table (halfway) wearing my mothers robe. With my calf propped up on the table as I wait for the third of six batches of fried chicken to float in the scalding hot grease, I can hear the heavy breathing of my family in the distance, and I can't help but chuckle at how the roles have reversed.