This week has been stressful, hectic and exhausting. I’m ecstatic that it’s finally the weekend. My best friend is in town for a short visit from D.C. so I plan to spend tomorrow with him eating good food and taking in “The Descendants.” Sunday I’m going to see Jack’s Mannequin at the House of Blues. Besides Andrew McMahon and George Clooney, here are four other things making me happy this week.
Comfort is fried chicken
Everyone has a comfort food. For some it’s chocolate ice cream or the perfect cheeseburger. For me, it’s fried chicken. It definitely runs in the family. My dad grew up on it. It’s also one of the reason he rarely makes it; he says it will never be as good as his mother’s. Speaking of mothers, besides inheriting her slightly crooked middle fingers and a love of the movie Gone with the Wind, I can also thank my mom for my love of fried chicken. If it’s on the menu, you can bet we’ll both order it. We still swear the best fried chicken we ever had was from 50′s Prime Time Café.
Surprisingly though, I’ve never made fried chicken, until today that is. It’s one of those foods I love but am scared to make, like apple pie and beef bourguignon. But since I’ve already conquered those two with great success, I figured it was time to try my hand at chicken. Turns out all you need is a cast iron skillet and a lot of vegetable oil. When I flipped the chicken over and saw the golden brown crunchy side, I had to shout, “I fried chicken!” My wonderful friends didn’t even make fun of me for it. (Probably because they knew if they did they’d go hungry.) I served it with mashed potatoes, carrots with honey, corn muffins and Arnold Palmers. The chicken was perfect: juicy, crunchy, comforting.
- I used six legs and three thighs which was plenty for four people.
- Like any great comfort food, there’s not a lot of fuss with fried chicken. The oil does all the work.
- Flipping the first batch.
- I’m smiling because I didn’t burn the chicken or burn down the apartment.
- I put it in a 250 degree oven to keep it warm while I finished cooking.
- The meal was wonderful, but the chicken did steal the show.
The recipe:
Fried Chicken (makes 4 servings)
The main contenders:
2 cups flour
Salt, to taste
Seasoned pepper, to taste (I used regular black pepper.)
2 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1 whole chicken, cut up (If you’re like me and not read to dismember a chicken, buy a pack of legs and a pack of thighs, or whatever cut you prefer.)
3 cups vegetable oil
Combine flour with salt and pepper in large zip-top bag.
With a fork, whisk eggs and milk in a shallow plate or bowl. Coat chicken pieces generously, and put in bag two at a time. Shake them in flour mixture, remove and set aside.
Heat oil in a large, deep frying pan over medium heat. (Test oil temperature by adding a drop of water to pan; if it sizzles, oil is hot enough.) Using tongs, place some chicken pieces in pan, but do not overlap.
Fry about 15 minutes on one side. Turn pieces over, cover pan and cook 10 minutes more, than take off cover and keep cooking until done, about another five minutes. Cut a piece to the bone, and if juices run clear, it’s done. Remove from pan, and place on plate lined with paper towels. Repeat with remaining pieces.
The day the music got really sad
It’s official.
My entire youth fits into one New York City subway tote. Granted, a few things are missing like Gilmore Girls seasons 1 – 7, a handful of neon jelly bracelets and a very beat up pair of red Converses. However the bag does hold my once monstrous CD collection, or what’s left of it.
Around my junior year, I began purging my CD collection. I got rid of anything I’d be embarrassed for someone to see. (I’m looking at you ‘NSYNC “No Strings Attached.”) That was also the time I stopped buying new CDs. After much dogged determination to hold on to the good ole days when new music meant going to Best Buy not clicking “purchase” on iTunes, I finally began buying all my music digitally. The music might not have died that day but it sure sounded melancholy.
Today–or rather tomorrow when I haul my tote bag to The Exchange and see what my youth amounts to in dollars in cents–the music will have unofficially died. All the CDs I’m selling will have a forever home on my iPod, Janis, (as in Joplin), but it still feels a tad bittersweet.
There’s no need to keep them. They take up valuable shelf space and rarely do I pop a CD into my Bose player. It’s much easier to just plug in Janis and hit shuffle. But those CDs got me through my awkward high school years when I wanted to dress like Penny Lane from “Almost Famous” and date the lead guitarist. They got me through college when I struggled with classes, tried to deal with my OCD, and spent nights bemoaning boys with my roommate. Music was and is a huge part of my life, and my collection of 200+ CDs went along with it. I worry that no one will know I’m cool just by looking at my CD collection. After all, scrolling through an iPod just isn’t as romantic.
I remember the mix CDs my friends and I made constantly. I remember the summer of ’06 when my favorite album was The Ataris “So Long, Astoria.” I remember buying CDs from earnest musicians peddling their wares outside the gates of Warped Tour in Cincinnati. I remember singing along to “Hands Down” and “New American Classic” and “Empty Apartment.” I remember when I was convinced no man would ever make me feel the way Chris Carrabba could when he strums that guitar.
I still remember everything.













