johnjohndoe

I was always very fond of my grandmother, Irene. Her maiden name was Holland. She was born in 1903, in Fayetteville, Arkansas, the middle child of seven children raised to fundamentalist Southern Baptist parents. She married my grandfather at nineteen and had my father at twenty-three. Grandmother was a slim red-haired woman with an infectious laugh who loved to cook - her speciality was fried chicken.

As a teenager I took on the job of maintaining my grandparent's yard for a couple of dollars a week. Every Friday after school I would tend to the chores that needed to be done around their house, and every Friday evening I would have dinner with them in their shinny white kitchen. Dinner was always the same - grandmother's fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy. It was ambrosia.

We would sit and talk for hours. Those evenings spent around my grandparent's little kitchen table are some of the most pleasant memories I have. Perhaps that's why I've spent the last couple of years trying to perfect my own fried chicken recipe. I've never been able to duplicate grandmother's, of course, but I believe I've come up with a satisfactory substitute.

I begin by opening a bottle of wine - perferably a nice Pinot Noir. Then I drink several glasses. I find the wine fortifies my soul and opens my mind to the possibilities of my endeavourers. Sometimes, if I'm feeling especially adventurous, I will obtain some marijuana from the lesbian couple who live next door; they are the caretakers of a beautiful hydroponic garden which is continually pregnant with the bounty of nature. We live in the Russian Hill district of San Francisco, and my neighbors have become affectionately known as "The Sisters of the Eternal Giggles."

Once the proper mindset as been achieved, I begin preparing the chicken. I first wash it in lukewarm water; then rinse it in ice water. Next, I stab each piece several times with an old three pronged fork after submerging the them in buttermilk (I find this technique adds not only to the flavor, but cuts down the cooking time by allowing the oil to penetrate the meat). I then prepare the skillet.

I fry the chicken in a cast iron pan I've taken meticulous care of for over twenty years. I fill the skillet to just above half way with a precise mixture of oils: 35% roasted walnut oil, 35% extra virgin olive oil, and 30% corn oil. I subject the mixture to intense heat on a gas stove. While the oils are heating, I coat the chicken with one of three commercially available brands. I find the coating to be the least important part of the recipe. The most important part is the frying itself.

Before I begin to fry the chicken, I open a bottle of German beer and drink it slowly. I was stationed in Germany while serving in the Army and was away from grandmother's cooking for two and a half years. I find the beer bonds to me my past and helps prepare me for the task at hand. Finally, when the oils begin to "swim," I submerge the chicken in the skillet, no more than four pieces at a time.

I equate frying chicken to playing jazz on an alto saxophone - I never do it the same way twice. I immediately begin to vary the temperature of the oils, moving and turning the chicken, flipping it one way or the other, while sipping my beer and wine simultaneously. In summer, when the kitchen swelters, my mind spins like a draydel. In winter, when it's raining, a warm fragrance radiates, Zen like, throughout the house.

I can only guess what grandmother would say about my fried chicken recipe. But knowing her as I did, she would probably say something like, "Let's sit down and eat."

Fantasy of You

There's something about this that seems a little plastic. The opening seems fake, like this person is a fraud. When my grandmother died, what he last name was, where she was in her family order, and how many brothers and sister she had wouldn't be on the surface of my mind. It would be the litt,e things, which the rest of the piece still lacks, the way her nose were scrunch up, or how she'd say something all the time, or how she'd never sit down without a certain pillow being there. Those are the things your story needs when the character's reflecting on her, I think.

The rest is interesting, and I have nothing but nitpicks there. It's a nice story, I just wish I could have connected a little more.

- FoY

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Casey

Before I critique this, is this story the truth, an exaggerated version of the truth, or mostly fiction? There are some comments I'd like to make but I need to know how to approach this story.

One thing did jump out at me though.
"Adds not only" infers that the technique adds to two or more things. That's not quite what you're saying here. Change the word order to "not only adds". This allows the technique to do two unrelated things.

johnjohndoe

dear Fantasy of You,

thank you for taking the time to read and for adding your feedback.

dear Casey,

i'm affraid i can't fill you in on the details of this story (fiction or nonfiction ect.). i am interested in your feedback about the story, as the story stands. i hope you will reply.

sincerely,

john. john doe.

Chris Miller

Nicely written. Good voice. Simple and never overwrought. I liked the details of the lesbian neighbors and their garden, and your stint in Germany. I kept thinking some sort of conflict or depth was going to emerge, but it never did. It just stayed a nice warm fuzzy nostalgia piece. Real, and I’d bet true. Say hi to the gigglers for me.

Thoughts from reading:

their shinny white kit
shiny

three pronged fork
three-pronged

I subject the mixture to intense heat on a gas stove.
Important safety tip: go out and buy a small countertop deep fryer. Drunk and stoned as you are, I’m nervous about your setting yourself on fire. Best not to apply intense heat to cooking oils even under ideal circumstances.

I immediately begin to vary the temperature of the oils, moving and turning the chicken, flipping it one way or the other, while sipping my beer and wine simultaneously.
Yuk. And Yikes! Ditto on the safety tip.

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Casey

The problem is either you or the character are headed for rehab. If this is a true experience then I'll cut you some slack; you don't need me preaching to you. If this is a piece of fiction then you've gone too far with the alcohol and pot. See my problem here? What do I let slide with the understanding that it may tun your audience off, and what do I tell you to rework?

johnjohndoe

dear Casey,

you have every right to your point of view, just as i have every right to write what i please...here in america. if you find the story distasteful because of my references to alcohol and drugs, i respect that.

freedom of speech is a tough thing to deal with sometimes. maybe someone says something that disturbs you or makes you angry. but, in my point of view, i go ahead and live with that - for the right to express myself freely. we have that right. many generations have fought and died for it. i wish i could remember the name of the patriot who said it (and i'm probably paraphrasing the quote) but it goes something like this: "i may not agree with what you say, but i'll fight to the death for your right to say it."

i'll climb down off my soapbox now...and thanks again for taking the time to comment.

john.

Casey

I believe you're thinking of the French philosopher Voltaire. There are a few variations of that quote. It turns out he never said any of the variations, just something that had the same spirit.

Chris Miller

As I posted here earlier, I thought the alcohol and pot (and lesbian) details made the story and character interesting. Truth in writing is always a good thing. And this is certainly a true story.

His total comfort with his life and lifestyle and the lack of conflict or momentum were it's main weakness. I'm thinking in the next episode his cooking oil will explode giving him 2nd and 3rd degree burns over 85 percent of his body and when he comes out of his medically induced coma, will be forced to live a life chock full of interesting challenges and conflicts. But that's another story, and hopefully not true.

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johnjohndoe

dear Chris Miller,

in your first comment (please see above), you mentioned your hope that some sort of conflict or depth would emerge in my story...i insist that there is conflict between the characters, but it's very subtle (almost subliminal).

it's the conflict between the image of the elderly, church going grandmother, frying chicken for her beloved grandson...and the image of her drinking, druging grandson, desperately reaching out to his dearly departed grandmother through the act of frying chicken.

and in the end, what does she do? she sits down with him, my friend, she sits down with him and says, "Let's eat"! now, if that is not love and forgivness in the neo-classical american style, then i'm a monkey's uncle.

yours most sincerely,

john. john doe.

p.s. i am going to post a revised version of this story in the next week or so on lit.org. (either thursday or friday).

pp.s. I have retitled the story: "Zen Chicken."

Chris Miller

I like your analysis. The author's take is almost always the most considered, and always the one that matter most.

But I'd still say that, since the gm's dead now and these are his reflections, that her forgiveness is tantamount to self-forgiveness and acceptance and all that. But he still seems to have issues left unresolved. Very true to life in this too I suppose.

Funny, 20+ yrs ago when I was an indoor hydroponic "greenhouser" I showed my 80 yr old gm my setup and crop. Then she evangelized Jesus to me for a while. Don't know why your story made me remember... But thanks.

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johnjohndoe

dear Chris Miller,

hallelujah, my friend, hallelujah.

as always,

j.jd.

Roxane

again i liked your tone of writing, its straight forward and no BS. I especially liked the content after your analysis, but in all honesty i didnt think of it like that before you told, maybe you could make it a little clearer somehow?

Rachel381

I enjoyed your story, j.jd. I thought it was fresh and vibrant. I wasn't bored for a second and loved the candid approach you took. When I read, I like to get away from the problems of everyday life by reading something light-hearted like this.

What I find fascinating is how other writers take content too literally and begin to become overly judgmental about your stance. In my eyes, the part about the alcohol and pot is clear to the reader that it is for entertainment-value. Who cares if it’s true or not. If anyone has lived in a big city like San Francisco or New York then they know that new-age lesbian neighbors are common. It’s a bit of a cliché, but cliché’s emerge from truth.

Some people need to find a way to use constructive-criticism effectively, and not in an arrogant manner. We are all here to help each other improve as writers. And when we don’t do that, it makes others not want to return to this site.

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LolliAdverbs

The first paragraph is a little off-putting for some reason, but after the second paragraph I thought it was great. I think it may be because everything you mention about your grandmother has direct bearing on the character's life, except the first three or four sentences. They feel out of place.