I raised my voice at my mother, but not too much, I did not want to be forbidden from going to the event of the year. I did speak loud enough for my mom to understand that store-bought Kentucky Fried Chicken was an abomination and we would be shamed if that was her pitch-in at HER family’s much-anticipated reunion. Of course, my nine years of experience in the world did not serve as an expert opinion as she placed the pieces from the cardboard bucket into the Tupperware purchased at a home party.
The ninety-minute drive to her hometown did not soothe my red face and tapping feet. Even before compulsory seat belts, it was uncomfortable if you spent the car ride with your arms crossed and your head bowed sporting a scowl. The peppery smell of the chicken made my mouth water and my stomach scream for sustenance.
When we arrived mom placed the chicken on the table. Proudly! Her miniature (me) acted like we were not related. After an Uncle’s blessing for the homemade goods and the counterfeit chicken, we filled our plates. The steam rose off the plump blobs of flour and gravy of the dumplings my Aunt Ruby spent hours preparing. I gently filled my plate. Suspended bananas in gelatin melted slowly next to bright, hand-snapped green beans flavored with savory home-raised bacon that once had a name. Of course, all of this formed a circle around my final selection – fowl. The chicken that was commercially cooked in eleven herbs and spices was hard to pass because it was quite tasty and needed to clean dumpling gravy off the paper plate.