This is fact not fiction

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.

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.

I owe my knowledge of all things culinary to my dad. He is my favorite chef. He taught me how to scramble an egg and conquer Julia Child’s boeuf bourguignon. But the one bit of knowledge he has yet to bestow upon me is the art of pie-making. I may be biased when saying this, but no one makes pie like my dad. Strawberry, sweet potato, chocolate a la rum, cherry, peanut butter–Oh the peanut butter!–he’s mastered them all. He still thinks his lemon meringue will never be as good as his mother’s, but anyone who’s had his lemon meringue would scoff at that statement.  (Unlike myself, my dad is unbearably modest.)

Like any good chef, he has a signature pie: apple. It’s simple, fulfilling and classic. My dad has taught me two very important things about preparing food. 1. Cooking is best done to Aretha Franklin, and 2. Apple pie can make any meal better. This morning I made my own version of the American favorite. Fearful of becoming the co-worker who never contributes to the numerous spreads of food that always fill the lunch room, I knew I needed to make up for it at our Thanksgiving dinner. I immediately decided I would bring an apple pie even though I didn’t own a pie plate…or a rolling pin…and had never made a pie. Something else my dad taught me: Be fearless in the kitchen.

Thankfully, my pie turned out quite well, saving me an emergency run to Prestis to buy two dozen chocolate cannolis. I didn’t use my dad’s recipe. (I’m fearless but I don’t know if I want to mess with perfection.) The cream cheese I used in the crust gave it a soft rich taste which balanced out the tartness of the Granny Smith apples. By the end of the night, my pie was gone and I was basking in the warm glow of my co-workers’ compliments. (I told you I wasn’t modest.)

Next, I think I’ll try this recipe for another one of my favorite pies, and surprisingly one my father hasn’t made.

Assembling the ingredients.

I didn't realize how much six apples was until my pie got too big for its crust.

The finished product. What it lacks in presentation it makes up for in taste.