I knew her day was a good one the minute I opened the screen door and smelled fried chicken. Fried chicken and the freshly washed kitchen rugs clued me in to her emotional state. If noodles and prunes were on the menu, or milk noodle soup, or even pancakes and eggs – one of my favorites – I learned early on that her day was filled with gloom and depression.
As the mother of a severely disabled first-born daughter, she found herself housebound and alone more than the other mothers in our community.
If solitaire cards spanned over the table and cigarette smoke swirled above her head when I entered the kitchen after the long bus ride home through the country from school in town, it usually indicated all was not well.
I learned to sense, smell, and deeply feel her moods at a young age.
I loved her, yet pitied her. Like an injured and mistreated pup, she shrank in size and disappeared into herself when certain persons walked into the room.
Surprisingly, she exhibited a silent resistance.
Standing over the cast iron skillet, wiping her hands of the back side of her jeans, she took out her love of life when frying up chicken for her family of four girls and one boy.
My mouth waters thinking about it. The amber colored pieces of chicken, artfully arranged on the platter, sat next to the bowl of the orange cheesy Velveeta-creamed potatoes, my dad’s favorite. Perhaps a torn salad of iceberg lettuce drizzled with her own dressing concoction of sweetened miracle whip balanced out the meal. I do not recall.
What I do recall is that my first bite into the crunchy coating on the chicken thigh cued me in. All could be well with the world.
Other days would come.
The cards would be pulled out from the drawer. Solitaire again graced the table. Half-crumpled cigarette butts and ashes spilled out of the ash tray. The window blinds pulled down low.
I wondered if she pondered deeply her predicament and that of her oldest daughter sitting in her wheelchair in the corner of the kitchen. I’ll never be sure.
This one thing I am sure of: a skillet of fried chicken indicated hope!
Life, the good life, might just be as possible as her delicious fried chicken.
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