Though I Walk Through the Valley of Godzilla Chickens…….

Recipe Source: none
Year: none
Recipe: Fried Chicken
Music to cook by:  Chicken Heads (brock brock)

I thought I’d share a picture of me with my new beau.

The future Mrs. Sanders??????

Okay, so maybe the Colonel and I aren’t doing the chicken tango, but the Colonel’s chicken and I were childhood friends.  My family frequented his house of fried birds more than frequently.    Fried chicken was a way of life.  Everyone cooked it.   Everyone ate it.  But not everyone gave you wet naps at the end of the meal like Kentucky Fried Chicken.  For some reason, I was obsessed with KFC’s wet naps as a child.  Thus began my love affair with the Colonel.

This fried chicken childhood wasn’t always about wet naps, original recipe, and an old man in a leisure suit for me.  My Great Grandmother not only fried chicken she raised the dang things. Her chickens always terrified me because they strutted around her yard like miniature fire-breathing Godzillas dominating everything in their path.  I screamed in abject horror every time I was forced to walk amongst their clucking kind.  It’s a good thing I never made the connection between the Godzilla chickens and the Colonel.   I may have befriended them and campaigned like a rabid Republican in an attempt to save them from the frying pan.

For some reason I realized recently that I have never fried chicken.  I decided if I wanted to keep my Southern woman’s card, I needed to try.  I thought there would be a fried chicken recipe in my Great Grandmother’s journal.  Nope! Not a one.  The only mention of any chicken is reference to the rationing of eggs in winter.  Rationing eggs?   Say whaaaat…….

Anyway, in my failed fried chicken journal search, it dawned on me Southern women are born with an inherent knowledge of how to cook fried chicken.  Receipe smecipe. They need none.  The fact that I was not born with this knowledge is further proof that my older brother was right.  I am an alien……….. hatched……….. adopted.  Thankfully I have the “y’all” and “fixin to” phonetically perfected. My alien hatched heritage goes unnoticed for the most part.

With no Great Grandmother recipe, I knew I had two options.  I could ask the mechanics at work and/or Google it.  I did both.  The mechanics suggestions were as follows:

  • cook it slow  (ummm……… I have subzero patience).
  • use a cast iron skillet  (ummm…… last time I tried to season an iron skillet it turned into a rusted relic reminiscent of the Titanic).
  • use seasoned flour (I could do this).
  • drink before you eat it  (I could do this too).
I knew I was capable of two out of the four!  The only problem with the last suggestion was that I ran the risk of earning the “I’m too drunk to taste this chicken” shirt.  Such a problem might not be so bad given my inability to boil water correctly.

You too can have a dunk chicken shirt. See

Next up!  Google.  A Google search netted me 36,200,000 entries.  Yikes.  I decided to glance at a few and just wing it.  I used a simple combination of chicken dredged in egg and seasoned flour.

The outcome?  It tasted like chicken.  Duh.  Actually, it was pretty good.


I do believe I get to keep my Southern woman’s card and keep my alien heritage quiet a bit longer. I think I deserve a reward for such an accomplishment.  This will do.

Ho Ho HO......

I asked my dad about his experience with my Great Grandmother’s Godzilla chickens and he shared the following:

 I was also terrorized as a child by roosters on the farm. I remember one attacking me and scaring the hell out of me. The best chicken story I can tell  occurred when I was five.  I really loved going around with grandmother to gather eggs from the hens’ nests. She would always leave one in each nest to encourage the hen to keep laying eggs.  I always thought about that one egg wondering if someone else might get it. Sometimes I would go back and see if the one egg was still there. On one occasion, when I returned, the hen had already laid a second egg. I couldn’t resist taking one of the two eggs thinking that no one would ever know.  I sneaked off to a well-hidden place and decided to crack the egg. What I didn’t know was that grandmother always left the same egg, which had served as a dummy for a very long time. By now the egg had gone rotten. I had taken the rotten one.  I didn’t know that when eggs rot, a lot of pressure builds up inside. I was really in for a surprise. ………….KABOOOMM!!. I had rotten egg all over me and I smelled really awful. I had to confess what I had done before getting scrubbed down. This was one of my first lessons in the consequences of deception.