The Chicken Came First, Definitely.

I have been circling around a number of serious, introspective possible subjects today, including what we are and are not willing to excuse in the people we love, the notion of community service as an antidote to self-involvement or a downturn of some kind, the unexpected lessons learned while playing checkers with Lily, Annika's preternaturally joyful personality and its ability to change the mood of a household, but I seem to have sunken into a sort of a food stupor, after a day spent making an elaborate Portuguese version of a cassoulet and then the eating of said dish, and instead I find my thoughts turning--perversely--to fried chicken.

I cannot say this of any other food, but I do remember the first time I ate fried chicken. I was seven, and my parents had taken us to Disney World. Or rather to Orlando, where we made side trips to Busch Gardens, an orange grove and a little restaurant recommended by friends of my parents that had red-and-white checkered tablecloths and a special of the house.

That first fried chicken leg left a more indelible impression on me than Mickey and Minnie, the It's a Small World ride and even the heated swimming pool at the unimaginably campy Polynesian hotel, which at the time seemed the epitome of glamour and luxury. I had never tasted anything so luscious and savory and crispy and succulent in my life.

And since that first piece of fried chicken, over thirty years ago now, I have sought perfection in this arena all over the country, and in other countries, too, when it is to be found. It is the one item I cannot ignore on a menu; it is the one dish I have never made quite to my own satisfaction after repeated attempts.

To be clear, I enjoy even mediocre fried chicken and fried chicken's woebegone step-siblings: the nugget, tender and strip. I will eat chain restaurant fried chicken, have sampled various frozen versions and delight in ethnic, nontraditional Southern varieties, such as Korean and Vietnamese.

A few years ago, I read an article in a food publication announcing that two Southern chefs would be opening a small storefront fried chicken spot TWO BLOCKS from my apartment. I stalked the place for days when it was late to open, calling and disguising my voice once, when I was afraid one of the owners might recognize me and take for a fried chicken freak, which, I guess, I kind of am.

Since the opening of the fried chicken joint, which also makes nice, tart lemonade, a decent if unorthodox macaroni and cheese and several lovely roasted vegetable sides, I have become a frequent diner. I have indoctrinated Lily into the ways of fried chicken, and when we play "This Little Piggie" with Annika's toes, we say, "This little piggie went to the fried chicken place," instead of, "This little piggie ate roast beef," a sure sign of a lack of respect for meter in nursery rhymes if not full-fledged fried chicken insanity.

Anyway. I am stuffed full of pork shoulder and kale and white beans and grilled olive oil toasts right now, and I am not quite sure why writing this didn't make me feel vaguely, or even certifiably ill. But it did not. It did make me think of when next week I might be able to fit in a pit-stop at the fried chicken place.