One of my favorite things about my friend Elise is that she loves to eat. Now I certainly don’t mean that she sits around stuffing her face with Cheetos all day, because if you want to know the truth of it all, girlfriend has got it goin’ on.
And besides, if anyone is going to be the Official Cheetos Face-Stuffer, I believe I have a lock on the title.
However, Elise does enjoy some tasty Southern cuisine. And since Elise and her second-born are coming into town tonight, I’ve been thinking for the last couple of days about what I can fix for supper. After all, planning a meal is oftentimes just as fun as preparing it and eating it – especially if you love to cook like I do.
Those of you who only recently started reading my blog probably aren’t familiar with the tragedy that hit Elise’s family last July. Tonight will be the first time that I’ve seen my sweet friend since I left Paul’s funeral, and I can’t tell you how excited I am about being able to love on her a little bit by cooking supper for her and one of her little men.
And in the South, that can only mean one thing: I will be serving fried chicken.
When we were in college, Elise and I both spent a substantial portion of our weekly allowances at Popeye’s, and as a result, my, um, posterior “portions” became significantly more, um, “substantial.” Elise somehow managed to stay cute and skinny, but I do not hold that against her unless you count the deep well of bitterness that resides in the pit of my stomach. Other than that I’m perfectly fine with all of her well-toned hotness.
Now if you are not familiar with Popeye’s, all I can tell you is how deeply sorry I am, because their fried chicken and homemade biscuits are so fine that it is nearly impossible to consume them without GIVING THANKS TO OUR HEAVENLY FATHER FOR HIS DELICIOUS PROVISION. And while you may be thinking, “Well, I think KFC is pretty good,” I am here to tell you – in the most gentle way I know – that KFC AIN’T GOT NOTHIN’ ON THE POPEYE’S.
As someone who has never met a piece of deep-fried poultry that I didn’t like, I know whereof I speak on this one, people. Trust me.
Over the last few years, Elise – regrettably – has strayed from her Popeye’s fried chicken heritage and become a loyal Church’s Chicken customer. In fact, I believe that when the employees at the Church’s on Meadowbrook Road in Jackson, Mississippi see Elise’s SUV approaching their restaurant, they immediately begin to fill a bag with chicken tenders and jalapeno bombers because they know exactly what kind of fried food fix the lady in the Suburban needs.
All they ask is that she slows down her vehicle long enough for them to throw the food in her car and for her to throw some money at them in return. The obligatory exchange of pleasantries is no longer required.
But tonight, at my house, Popeye’s is once again going to rule the chicken roost. I’m going to pick up a bucket of deep fried goodness, cook us some butterbeans and maybe even some potato casserole, then whip up a little homemade chocolate pudding for dessert. I cannot wait to sit down at the table and break a little bread – in biscuit form, of course – with Elise.
I can’t wait to see her stinkin’ face. I can’t wait to hear her laugh.
I mean, come on, y’all: eating Popeye’s chicken and spending time with an old friend?
My cup, it runneth over.
Specifically, it runneth over with piping hot peanut oil.
And I am thankful.
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