Fried Chicken

After leaving Mistress Domin-Nik's house last night, The Great Plotnik had a long talk with Chef Pickle-Nik. It was very nice to talk to her about her trip to the land of Dogs-Sniff-for-Truffles. Chef Pickle-nik is an artist, the rare artist who gets to work in the medium people love best: food.

Plotnik can sum up his and Pickle-Nik's conversation as follows: 1) Fried Chicken. 2) Rabbit livers. 3) The Front of the House vs. The Back of the House. 4) Life. 5) Fried chicken again. 6) Edna Lewis, The Grand Dame of Southern cooking. 7) Chef Scott Peacock, who is not Miss Peacock in the Kitchen with a Lead Pipe. 8) Inspiration. 9.) Big Decisions. 10) More fried chicken.

What it is, is that life can't only be about the breading or the temperature of the grease or the weight of the cast iron skillet or the spices or whether or not you salt it before or after. Sooner or later you've got to deal with the chicken. You've got to have you a good chicken. If you got a problem with your chicken, well you've just got to go out and get you another chicken.

TGP was thinking about fried chicken, and about the story Chef P wrote about a long-ago kiss, and about Blonde Bombshell and how her writing sometimes leaves him in mouth-gaping awe, when he saw the 24-hour convenience store on Mission St. The light was green, but Plotnik stopped his car in the middle of the intersection and stared at the people inside the market, at headlights approaching and tail lights receding, at the rain pounding his hood, at the 14-Mission bus hissing steam from its tires. He took this picture and then thought: Where am I going?

I mean, he knew where he was going. But where could he get him some fried chicken?

He went home, rifled the fridge in vain. He wished he could go over to Pickle's Chicken Shack for a chicken-and-three...make it macaroni n' cheese, greens and white beans. Maybe slaw. Hold the rabbit livers.