This post should have been titled “We are assholes.” Because we are. Corelyn and I were all set to make fried chicken. We had a schedule. We were sticking to the schedule. It didn’t matter that Corelyn was moving in a few days and that I was sick. We were, gd it, going to make fried chicken. And we were going to like it. We had gone to two grocery stores. We had bought buttermilk. We had gotten more spices, we had bought an obscene amount of butter, we had studied the book, we had carried it around in our pocketbooks and read it on the way to work during carpool. OK, well maybe that last one was just me. But here we were. Fried chicken night. Chicken spaghetti behind us. It was our night. And so, sick or not, I flipped to the fried chicken page.
Step 1: Soak the chicken overnight in buttermilk. (Hence the “we are assholes.”)
And so, we compromised. We made our sheet cake (see next post) instead. And we soaked the chicken in buttermilk. And I slept in the next day, sick as a dog. I caught up on TV. I sniffled, I snuggled, I fretted. And when Corelyn got home, we made fried chicken. Because that, that is what we do.