The Best Meal Ever

BEST MEAL EVER

            As soon as I walked through the back door, I began smiling. My nostrils came to attention and drank in the crispy aroma of Mom frying chicken. The popping and crackling of the flour-drenched oil played a sweet sonata on my taste buds. I savored the succulent, meaty goodness before even taking a bite.

            I kissed Mom on the cheek, thanking her for making my favorite dinner. She lifted the lid on the black cast iron Dutch oven resting over the gas flames. As I leaned over it to inhale the fragrance, a drop of oil burst and stung my cheek. Still I breathed deeply before backing away.

            Potatoes boiled on the adjacent burner. They were almost ready for mashing. Milk and butter stood at the ready, offering themselves for both the potatoes and the gravy.

            I ran up the stairs to my room and quickly changed out of my school clothes, before thundering back to the silverware drawer in the kitchen. On fried chicken days I didn’t need to be asked even once to set the table. Finishing that task, I played a game with John as we waited for Mom and Dad to drink their Manhattans as the chicken continued to fry.

            Finally, Mom called us to the table. A platter stacked high with golden, “goopy” fried chicken sat on the blue-flecked Formica table between Dad and me. I impatiently waited for him to spear a breast before I stuck my fork into a leg and plunked it on my plate.

            Mom reminded us that we needed to say grace. As soon as “Amen” left my lips, I scooped some corn onto my plate and passed it to Dad, who was placing a leg on John’s plate. After Mom served herself mashed potatoes, she handed the bowl to me. I plopped a generous helping onto my plate, then passed the bowl on to Dad.

            As I waited for the gravy to make its way to me, I prepared my potatoes. Using my fork, I carefully made a hole in the middle and built up the sides around it. taking the gravy ladle, I poured two or three large spoonfuls into the “swimming pool” I had created.

            The first bite of the chicken tasted better than the first sip of morning coffee. The golden flavor of the skin filled me with joy. I could have eaten a hundred pieces had I been given the opportunity.

            I sprinkled some pepper on the gravy, then sampled the potatoes. With precision I ate away the side of the pool. I knew the gravy was perfect when it failed to escape through the opening. Mom’s gravy was so thick that it didn’t move at all. I shoveled a forkful of the white, glue-like gravy into my mouth. The taste of milk and chicken dredgings lingered on my tongue.

            Chicken, potatoes, and gravy circulated around the table until there was no evidence, except for the bones picked clean of any meat and the empty bowls, that there had been any food at all. Laughter and sharing of the day’s events were digested along with the protein as we lingered around the table.

            One day, when I sit at the heavenly banquet, I’ll be feasting on Mom’s fried chicken once again. And the platter will always be full.