My parents grew upduring the Depression. As a result, theyplay it safe with their money. They probablyeven hide it in their underwear. According to my dad, as a kid he had to kill and eat chickens to surviveand once he became a teenager he refused to eat chicken anymore. To this day, he hates chicken and won’t eatit. This always struck me as odd becauseisn’t that kinda what we do with chickens? Anyway, when I was growing up we would always have chicken if dad wasout of town. It was like a big chickenfiesta buffet! When he came back home, wealways hid the evidence…we didn’t want to be judged for our chickenindulgences. These days, my dad doesn’t travel so my mom doesn’t really have a chicken outlet anymore. She makes all the meals and out ofconsideration for him she steers clear of chicken even though she loves chicken. Well…this chicken issue came to a headyesterday. I talked with my mom on thephone. All she talked about was a bucketof Kentucky Fried Chicken (I realize it is called KFC now, but my mom keptsaying Kentucky Fried Chicken in her overly southern accent). She said, “I’m putting my foot down andhaving myself a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.” I laughed. She didn’t laugh. This indicatedthe seriousness of the bucket of chicken. “Your dad can just have a hot dog, because I’m having chicken!” “I might even have three pieces!” “It will be fried and greasy!” “God Bless America.” She just went on and on. I’m proud of her for rebelling and gettingher chicken. You can only keep asouthern woman away from a bucket of fried chicken for just so long.
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