A Southern POV: Burnt Fried Chicken

I had two grandmothers, and they should have been similar, considering they were of the same generation, born on either side of the year 1900. Instead, they could not have been more different. Mom and Grandmother.

"Mom" is on the left, next to Mother,
and "Grandmother" is on the right.
Circa 1978. 

They did have some things in common, including their devout faith. And as the youngest grandchild on both sides of the family, I lost them both fairly early in life, when I was in my early 20s. Forty years later, memories are faded and pixelated, but a few stand out, clear as the proverbial dinner bell.

My maternal grandmother, Ila, was soft-spoken, loving, and kind, an amazing cook who loved to garden and take care of her family and the animals on the farm. We called her "Mom," instead of any of the usual grandmother names. She could do anything with a needle, including tatting lace. She had spare bedrooms that were clean if a bit cluttered, and whenever we returned to my parents' hometowns, we always stayed with her.

We almost never stayed with my paternal grandmother, Omie. It didn't occur to me until I was grown to ask why. And, to be honest, by that time, I really didn't have to ask.

Omie had been a "city girl," who had even attended charm school. In my childhood, she absolutely defined "prim and proper." We never dreamed of calling her anything but Grandmother. She married a storekeeper, who was a member of a "founding family" in his small town, but the Great Depression turned them into farmers for awhile, which made Grandmother miserable. She wasn't a great cook, and much preferred to read her Bible and sing hymns at the top of her voice, her feet going lickety-split on the pump organ peddles, than clean. Supper was often cornbread and milk, pinto beans, or cold leftovers.

Grandmother, my brother, and me.
Circa 1959.

She had a most patient husband. Two, in fact. She outlived both of them. 

She hated mini-skirts and beards (and hippies, if that's not obvious). Once, when I was attempting to sit gracefully in a mini-skirt by pulling it down in the back, she commented, "Dear, you cannot pull down what isn't there."

But, heavens, did Grandmother love the Bible. She made a godly attempt to read through the King James Bible from Genesis to Revelation, every year. She wore out several leather volumes, and she recorded each completed read-through in the back, in her neat but shaky handwriting. She was wise, devout, and demanding. Yet she loved all her grandkids almost as much as she did the King James.

But I seldom thought about her without thinking about burnt fried chicken. As I said...she wasn't much of a cook.

I think she was bothered occasionally by the fact that our family never stayed with her when we were visiting the area. But her house was usually small, and she was lovingly determined to bring us back to the doctrines she loved so much. My father lost patience with this fairly quick.

Plus...her sofa and chairs were also covered in horsehair fabric, which made us all itch.

But in one attempt to persuade us to linger longer, she offered to make us lunch, which consisted of leftovers some of her church ladies had brought her. There was potato salad, beans, some greens we couldn't quite put a name to...and fried chicken. My mother suggested she heat it in the oven, but Grandmother insisted the skillet would be faster. So she refried the chicken.

Or tried to. Chicken doesn't refry easily. Especially when there's no fat in the skillet.

Ah, well, fried chicken isn't that good for you anyway.

But it was a memorable visit. One full of love, advice, and great hugs. I think God...and King James...would have been pleased.