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New York fried chicken My toes gripped the handle of the cookie drawer to watch my Grandma knead dough for the dozen biscuits and two fresh homemade pies baked daily in the wood cook stove. Saturdays I waited patiently as my mother’s biscuits baked in the electric oven. All were served hot with fresh churned melting butter spilling from inside. As a 25-year trucker, I have eaten fresh lobster in Bangor, Maine, and pond-raised, corn-fed catfish in Odessa, Texas. In a state of serious hunger, I consumed an egg salad sandwich complete with shells in Miami, Florida. I enjoyed my first taco omelet in Worthington, Minnesota, and Cajun gumbo in New Orleans. Broad River at the North Carolina/South Carolina border on I-85 is the home-cooking capital of the United States. I married the self-proclaimed best cook ever. (No argument.) Her mother’s creation, City Fried Chicken (Detroit), is the first thing gone at the family reunion, unless my son sees my sister’s fried chicken. But the $13.85 honey-dipped “Southern” fried chicken at the travel plaza in Glens Falls, New York, I had in 1984 screams NEVER. The Adirondacks are beautiful, but don’t eat the chicken. Eddie Dale Eddinger | Lexington | EnergyUnited |
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