Calamity's Kitchen

If you're Southern, you're born knowing how to make fried chicken, right? Something ingrained in the genes. After all, Southerners choose that entree more often than any other. At least that was the case when I was a child. Mamie, who lived with her family on our farm, and cooked most of the meals at my house, made the very best fried chicken ever. I ate plenty of it but never thought to ask about the recipe. It's almost certain that there wasn't one. She just knew how to create perfection with a bit of lard, flour and freshly killed chicken. Today those ingredients sound rather ghastly. Back then, they created nourishing nirvana.

My own mother never taught me to cook. Anything. When I asked about this obvious omission, she replied that I would get married and I'd need to cook whatever my husband wanted to eat. Therefore, why should she teach me to cook something else? Any logic is noticeably absent and the sexism is appalling. I remained cooking ignorant.

I married very young and that husband knew even less about a kitchen than I did. How hard could it be? People cooked all the time....and survived. So, being sure of my Southern heritage, I decided I'd make fried chicken for one of our first meals.

I bought chicken pieces, dunked them in flour, poured the Crisco (no lard) into the skillet and turned on the stove's burner. Once the oil was very hot, I began dropping chicken pieces into the bubbling liquid.

Disaster. The oil spattered, reached my face, and gave me two cheeks with serious burns. I did the only reasonable thing. Turned off the stove. Tossed the chicken and oil in the trash and went out to eat.

Gradually, I figured out how to make very simple meals. No more fried chicken. My Southern gene had deserted me.

The first Easter after my marriage, a guest was invited for dinner. I chose chicken as the entree but wisely revised the menu to focus on the roasted variety. No worries about oil mishaps and trashed meals.

The day was proceeding well until I became convinced I just couldn't entertain anybody. We called our guest and postponed the meal for several hours until I was able to calm myself, stuff the bird, and get it into the oven without suffering a total culinary breakdown.

Through the years, life has brought many cooking lessons. My mishaps have become more humorous, less life-altering. The family, especially my daughter, fondly recalls the Christmas when I absently covered the turkey in cinnamon instead of paprika. Maybe I had a secret yen for a more exotic flavor.

The most egregious holiday meal mistake involved forgetting to change the oven setting from 'pre-heat' to 'bake' for the entire 3 hour span required to cook a large turkey. With the rest of the meal ready to be plated, the turkey remained almost raw. My wonderful family was totally supportive and did not complain about a meatless meal. I gently dropped the uncooked turkey in a large trash bag and took myself to bed.

Maybe my travails in the kitchen are rooted in the lack of instruction I received from my mother regarding food preparation. No, that can't be it. It must be me. I distract easily. My mind wanders as I'm putting ingredients together.

Just tonight I was making Henry's favorite meal. It's very simple but quite enjoyable. Farfalle pasta, sweet turkey sausage, a bit of shaved Parmesan. Green peas on the side (only for me.) I like to provide a bit of color to the pasta dish and enhance the flavor with herbs. I liberally sprinkle Italian seasoning, black pepper, maybe a bit of oregano.

I looked at the skillet and suddenly realized that I've accidentally opened the 'scoop' side of the seasoning jar and dumped a mound of green herbs onto the pasta. Maybe it won't be too bad. So much better than if I'd been using salt. (Truly I don't put salt in anything except for a pinch or two when making mashed potatoes.)

It's been forty-five years since those initial clueless culinary months. I haven't made anyone sick or at least I don't think I have. Some people seem to enjoy meals that I've prepared. I've accepted compliments and cleared lots of clean plates. I'd say I'm almost average, perhaps slightly below that mark, in the kitchen. I know, however, that calamity awaits.