“I want there to be no peasant so poor in my realm that he will not have a chicken in his pot every Sunday.” – Henry IV (1553-1610)
I grew up knowing where food came from. My grandmother raised pigs, chickens and rabbits, had an apricot and a peach tree from which jam was made, and a large vegetable garden, the produce of which my mother and grandmother preserved to see us through the winter.
We ate well all week, but Sunday dinner was always special, and it began with my grandmother wringing the head of a chicken, which would then spasm around on the ground for a bit before joining its passed-on kin. .
The dead bird would then be dropped into a bucket of boiling water for a few minutes before its feathers were plucked out. Once that was done, the bird was cut into pieces, dipped in a seasoned egg, milk and flour mixture and fried until they had a golden-brown crispy exterior and a juicy interior.
I’ve never tasted better fried chicken, so delicious it would turn the Colonel and Popeye green with envy.
***
Cat No. 11: Alice’s Loony Cheshire
Pat Bean is a retired journalist who lives in Tucson with her canine companion, Scamp. She is a wondering-wanderer, avid reader, enthusiastic birder, Lonely Planet Community Pathfinder, Story Circle Network board member, author of Travels with Maggie available on Amazon (Free on Kindle Unlimited), and is always searching for life’s silver lining
Pat Bean's blog 
A good thing to know where food comes from. I enjoyed this window into your post, my friend.
Thanks Len. It was a fun memory.
I saw chickens slaughtered that way in a market in Morocco. Interesting process. We get our chicken oven ready from the supermarket!
That’s the way I get it these days, too. But it doesn’t taste as good. Thanks for commenting Andrew