During the final days of 2020, I was dying for fried chicken. I really like to cook, so I found a recipe online—the top secret recipe for the KFC original. I’ve tried copy-cat recipes before and it’s usually hit or miss. But this recipe had a great backstory—something about a disgruntled nephew or employee… or it fell from the Colonel’s coffin just before they lowered him down. I don’t remember, but regardless—I was jonezin mighty for some fried chicken. I did some recipe research and I found a few sites that said to use rice flour. Supposed to be lighter… crispier? Hmm… the magic word for fried chicken. Crispier. It even sounds sexy.
That beautiful color of golden brown is probably one of the most beautiful colors in the world. Fried chicken speaks the universal language—it’s the great uniter… spreading love to all brothers and sisters, everywhere. And by the end of the shit-show known as 2020, I was in need of some of that.
I have never made fried chicken.
I marinated my drum sticks in a combination of buttermilk, hot-sauce, a few spices including salt and pepper, and let them soak that night and into the next day. I even bought a thermometer to assure the correct temp of the oil. Long story short—they sucked. They came out burnt. Like crispy crap. I had followed the directions, adhered to the temp, and they began browning fast. I finally pulled them after 15 minutes of 350 temp oil and they were pink in the middle. Yep, pink in the middle—and charcoal on the outside. That was one time when the color pink was not cute. That color was not uniting anything… fuck 2020.
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