Fried Chicken, Reminiscences of Robert Hodge – Story 4 of 10
This is the fourth in a series of stories that Robert Hodge wrote in the 1980s about his childhood experiences growing up in Lawrence.
“In this day and age of the 1980s, fried chicken is a common place, cheap meat at the supermarket and is the foundation of many fast-food concerns.
“When I was young, in the 1930s, fried chicken was a rare treat, its appearance on the table indicating a special occasion of some note. Chickens were raised for egg-laying and, generally only after they were too old for that purpose, were they eaten and then as fat and old baked or boiled hens.
“In the spring and summer on a special occasion and usually on a Sunday, two or more chickens (roosters when possible) ideally weighing less than three pounds, would be purchased (for about 25 or 50 cents at a time when a large hamburger could be purchased for 5 cents) from a farmer. The chickens would be caught by being cornered in a wire pen or would be “hooked” on a leg by using a long piece of clothesline wire with a long narrow hook bent at one end.
“Two nails driven in a block of wood were spaced just right so the chicken’s neck would fit between them, but not let the head pull through. A slight pull on the chicken’s legs would stretch the neck so the head could be chopped off with a hatchet or axe. Some people would grab a chicken’s head and swing and pull or jerk it in such a way as to “wring” it off, but the only time I ever tried that, the poor chicken just squawked and had the most bruised neck any chicken ever had when the chopping hatchet fell.
“Once the head was off, the body would be “flung” away and the wings would flap and the legs would kick for about a minute. Once it had settled down, it would be taken to a bucket of boiling water and held by the feet, dunked in the water and bobbed up and down to be sure the water touched all areas. This caused the feathers to be loosened from the skin so they could be pulled off. Once the chicken was “picked” (we never said “plucked”), it still had “hair,” so a sheet of newspaper would be wadded and twisted, then lighted with a match and waved about the plucked carcass to burn off the hair-like feathers. At that point, the bird became property of the “women folks” who disemboweled it (saving the gizzard, liver and heart), cut it up, floured and seasoned it, and fried it up for serving. “I would guess we ate fried chicken at home maybe three times a year, but if we were lucky enough to go to “the farm” (home of two bachelor uncles, their mother and their widowed sister), we enjoyed extra fried chicken meals. It was a rare chicken meal at the farm that someone did not kid my great-grandmother (when she was living) or recall and recount (when she was gone) the love of my great-grandfather for the gizzard of the chicken and how the first time after they were married, she had proudly served him the gizzard only to have him discover that she had failed to “clean it” before its cooking.
“Kids usually got the drumsticks and there was usually a squabble about who would get the “pully bone” or wish bone. In retrospect, I wonder why neither my father nor my grandfather kept chickens. They certainly had the space and the ability to take care of them.”
