Fried chicken
12:30 on a Friday afternoon. The phone rings. "Alan? Come over this evenin' about five o'clock. I'm gonna fry you a chicken tonight." It's Gwen, one of the local elderly ladies who has taken to looking after the welfare of her single young pastor. My mind freezes; isn't this awfully short notice for a chicken dinner, especially from someone to whom I don't feel particularly close? I really don't have anything else to do tonight, but is fried chicken with Gwen really preferable to sitting on my couch watching reruns of The Simpsons?
Five? Sure. I'll be there.
3:50, later that afternoon. The phone rings. "Alan? What with all this thunder we've been havin' today, I was afraid my power was gonna go out, and I got started early and have everything nearly ready to go. Come on over now, if you can." Sigh. Supper at four in the afternoon?
Sure, I'll be right over.
I pull up in her drive and have to knock three times before she comes to unlock her screen door. Gwen is functionally deaf and is always afraid of someone sneaking into her house without her being able to hear them. Once she sees me at the door, she smiles her too-broad smile and invites me in. "Come in out of that rain, hon." She's wearing the faded pink housedress that she's had for over 25 years. "Look up, hon; don't look at the floor. My doctor says for me to not mop it yet, so I don't aggravate my side. It's still acting up on me. Feels like something's jiggling around in there and is gonna fall out any minute." She still hasn't fully recovered from her appendectomy last month, it seems, and shares her grief with anyone who will listen.
We walk into the kitchen. Her bed sits to the left, opposite the sink and stove; she sleeps there so she can hear the extra-loud phone ringing next to her. Her table is already set with two plates, two glasses, two forks and knives, and two paper towels folded neatly in half. The copious mound of fried chicken sits in the center of the small round table, surrounded by bowls of green beans and mashed potatoes. Gwen is just pouring the thickened gravy from its cast iron skillet into a glass bowl. "This ain't anything fancy, but I wanted to keep my promise to fry you a chicken."
She gets us both a can of Sprite. We sit, and she asks me to say a blessing. We eat. The chicken is greasy, but not overly so; the beans are scorched, but not overly so. The salt in the gravy sets off the earthiness of the potatoes. She reminds me so much of my own grandmother in her dress, in her longing to serve, in her ability to show affection through food but not through words. We don't carry on much of a conversation, both because we're too busy eating and because she hates putting in her hearing aid. ("I suppose they make good hearing aids, but I ain't found one yet that don't sound like firecrackers when I turn it on.")
I ask about her two children. "Well, I hardly ever hear from Brenda, but I suppose she's all right. Bobby, he's about the same." Brenda lives about an hour and a half away and never seems to find her way back to this valley. Bobby is her son who lives with her (but according to popular word on the street, he 'ain't much count'). Gwen continues: "I worry about Bobby. You pray for him. He still ain't made a commitment." It takes me a moment to realize what kind of commitment she's even talking about; she means, of course, a commitment to Christ. He may be her son and all, but more than that, to her, he's lost and on the path to perdition. "I do worry about that boy of mine. You make sure and pray extra hard for him."
Once we've finished eating, Gwen pulls out four empty margarine containers to send food home with me: one for chicken, one for beans, one for potatoes, one for gravy. I protest; she has none of my lip. "You need this more than I do." (Clearly, looking at the weight on my frame and the lack of weight on hers, I don't.)
We move to the living room and sit side-by-side on her couch to watch the five o'clock news on Bobby's large-screen television. She cranks up the volume to within three notches of the maximum. Whenever she turns to me to comment on the weather report or the state legislature, I now know what she must feel like on a daily basis, as I can hardly hear a word she says over the sound of the exaggeratedly stern news theme music.
Once the news cuts from local to the network, I make excuses: I have a sermon to write, so I really must be going now; thank you for the food.
The next afternoon, eating leftover chicken and potatoes and green beans for lunch, I come across the piece of meat with the wishbone in it. I haven't had a wishbone in years. Does it still work if you use it by yourself? I close my eyes; make a wish; pull with both pinkies.
God bless Gwen. God bless Brenda and Bobby. God bless fried chicken dinners on Friday nights in cluttered kitchens. God bless me.
Five? Sure. I'll be there.
3:50, later that afternoon. The phone rings. "Alan? What with all this thunder we've been havin' today, I was afraid my power was gonna go out, and I got started early and have everything nearly ready to go. Come on over now, if you can." Sigh. Supper at four in the afternoon?
Sure, I'll be right over.
I pull up in her drive and have to knock three times before she comes to unlock her screen door. Gwen is functionally deaf and is always afraid of someone sneaking into her house without her being able to hear them. Once she sees me at the door, she smiles her too-broad smile and invites me in. "Come in out of that rain, hon." She's wearing the faded pink housedress that she's had for over 25 years. "Look up, hon; don't look at the floor. My doctor says for me to not mop it yet, so I don't aggravate my side. It's still acting up on me. Feels like something's jiggling around in there and is gonna fall out any minute." She still hasn't fully recovered from her appendectomy last month, it seems, and shares her grief with anyone who will listen.
We walk into the kitchen. Her bed sits to the left, opposite the sink and stove; she sleeps there so she can hear the extra-loud phone ringing next to her. Her table is already set with two plates, two glasses, two forks and knives, and two paper towels folded neatly in half. The copious mound of fried chicken sits in the center of the small round table, surrounded by bowls of green beans and mashed potatoes. Gwen is just pouring the thickened gravy from its cast iron skillet into a glass bowl. "This ain't anything fancy, but I wanted to keep my promise to fry you a chicken."
She gets us both a can of Sprite. We sit, and she asks me to say a blessing. We eat. The chicken is greasy, but not overly so; the beans are scorched, but not overly so. The salt in the gravy sets off the earthiness of the potatoes. She reminds me so much of my own grandmother in her dress, in her longing to serve, in her ability to show affection through food but not through words. We don't carry on much of a conversation, both because we're too busy eating and because she hates putting in her hearing aid. ("I suppose they make good hearing aids, but I ain't found one yet that don't sound like firecrackers when I turn it on.")
I ask about her two children. "Well, I hardly ever hear from Brenda, but I suppose she's all right. Bobby, he's about the same." Brenda lives about an hour and a half away and never seems to find her way back to this valley. Bobby is her son who lives with her (but according to popular word on the street, he 'ain't much count'). Gwen continues: "I worry about Bobby. You pray for him. He still ain't made a commitment." It takes me a moment to realize what kind of commitment she's even talking about; she means, of course, a commitment to Christ. He may be her son and all, but more than that, to her, he's lost and on the path to perdition. "I do worry about that boy of mine. You make sure and pray extra hard for him."
Once we've finished eating, Gwen pulls out four empty margarine containers to send food home with me: one for chicken, one for beans, one for potatoes, one for gravy. I protest; she has none of my lip. "You need this more than I do." (Clearly, looking at the weight on my frame and the lack of weight on hers, I don't.)
We move to the living room and sit side-by-side on her couch to watch the five o'clock news on Bobby's large-screen television. She cranks up the volume to within three notches of the maximum. Whenever she turns to me to comment on the weather report or the state legislature, I now know what she must feel like on a daily basis, as I can hardly hear a word she says over the sound of the exaggeratedly stern news theme music.
Once the news cuts from local to the network, I make excuses: I have a sermon to write, so I really must be going now; thank you for the food.
The next afternoon, eating leftover chicken and potatoes and green beans for lunch, I come across the piece of meat with the wishbone in it. I haven't had a wishbone in years. Does it still work if you use it by yourself? I close my eyes; make a wish; pull with both pinkies.
God bless Gwen. God bless Brenda and Bobby. God bless fried chicken dinners on Friday nights in cluttered kitchens. God bless me.
posted by SouthernJubilee at
7:40 PM
