First comes church. Then comes Sunday Fried Chicken. When I was a boy, more often than not, Mom served the family a wonderful Sunday fried chicken dinner. Now and then she would serve her trademark pot roast. I've posted my short story, My Church When I Was A Boy, after my fried chicken recipe. I hope you'll keep scrolling down to read my story. It may bring some smiles to your face. Some of you will chuckle, laugh, and some may shed a tear or two. The first thing you'll see is a picture of my church. My church was torn down and has since been replaced by a church of another denomination. The picture will be meaningful as you read the story. [After the first paragraph, you'll need to click on the link to read the rest of the story.]
Grandpa’s
Sunday Fried Chicken
Ingredients:
Chicken pieces
1/4th cup salt
1/4th cup black pepper
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1 tablespoon paprika
1/4th cup fresh thyme leaves, chopped fine
1/4th cup fresh marjoram leaves, chopped fine
4-5 cups flour
1/3rd quart buttermilk
2 eggs
Cast iron skillet (or your favorite skillet)
Dipping bowl for buttermilk and eggs
Large plastic zip bag
Instructions:
Pour flour into a heavy plastic zip bag. Then add the salt, pepper, cayenne pepper, paprika, and fresh thyme and marjoram leaves. Zip the bag and shake the dry ingredient s to mix well.
Whisk the buttermilk and eggs in a bowl large enough to dip the chicken pieces.
Dip each piece of chicken in the egg/milk wash to cover well. Then drop the wet piece into the plastic bag of dry ingredients. Zip the bag and shake it to cover the chicken well. Take the chicken from the bag and carefully put it in the skillet of hot oil. Complete the process for all of the pieces of chicken you are frying.
Use tongs to frequently turn the chick pieces in the skillet and fry them to a golden brown. Remove the brown chicken and put it in a baking dish. Put the dish of fried chicken in a preheated 350 degree oven for 30-45 minutes to insure doneness. You can check on the doneness by inserting a thermometer halfway into the meatiest portion of a chicken breast. When the thermometer registers 160 degrees the chicken is done. Go for a higher temperature if you want to cook the dang bird in hell.
You may have noticed in the picture that I didn’t fry the chicken wings or the liver. I add each to a freezer bag and return the bag to the freezer. Down the road, I’ll give you recipes for Hot Wings and Chicken Liver Pate. Oh yeah, bring on the pate and onion jam!
My Church When I Was A Boy
When I think
of my church, when I was a boy back in the Forties and early Fifties, I
sometimes get a little choked up. The Northside Church of God, as it was known
in those days, stood at the corner of 30th and Annette Streets in
Indianapolis, Indiana. As always, it is the people and what goes on within a
church that makes a difference.
Wonderful people were in the vestibule to greet all who entered. Gracie and Jack Pittman, Barney and Pansy Allen, and Dr. Garland were among my favorites. Gracie, who had rosy cheeks, a big smile, and bright red hair, always bent over to hug me and tell me she loved me. Barney flashed a big smile and shook my hand, as did Dr. Garland.
Dr. Garland was an M.D., and a tall, stately gentleman. He always looked as if he had stepped out of a fashion magazine. I can still see Dr. Garland in his white suit and white shoes, standing there just inside the front door.
Some folks called Dr. Garland “Brother Two-Tone” because he had parts of his hair dyed, and this was why there were streaks of brown within his white hair. I a little red-haired freckled face kid in his only Sunday go-to-church tweed sports jacket and black slacks, always looked for Dr. Garland when I entered the church. He would always be putting a few Sen Sens on his tongue, I guess to fix his breath. While impeccably dressed, he always smelled of medicine and those Sen Sens. I tried Sen Sens once or twice. They were awful little chips of I don’t know what. They just kind of melted tar brown on your tongue.
Our church was a large three-story brick structure with big stained glass windows. We entered on the second level by way of two sets of steep, concrete stairs that ascended to big doors opening into the vestibule.
The second level of our church housed a large, theater-style sanctuary. The wood floor sloped gently down and inward to the altar and dais. The choir loft was just to the right of the dais. High on the wall behind the preachers’ chairs were the pipes of our great organ. I always liked looking at those golden pipes and listening to the great music that came from within, while Becky McNay’s hands raced all over the keyboard.
The dais was said to be a holy place, and this feeling was present within me when I occasionally stood behind the pulpit to testify, read a Bible verse, or sing with the children’s choir.
The theater-style wood chairs with arm rests were big and comfortable. A rack on the back of each chair contained a hymnal, a Bible, and cardboard fans supplied by a neighborhood funeral home. They were made of three pieces of cardboard joined by a gold rivet, so you could slide the pieces of cardboard open and commence fanning to cool yourself on a summer’s day. A picture of the painting of Christ knocking at your door, the Last Supper, or Christ on a hillside surrounded by children was printed on one side and an advertisement for the mortuary on the other. The advertisement included the name and location of the funeral home, and something heartfelt like, “Comforting north side families since 1822.”
When I was feeling ornery or just plain bad, I’d sit up in the balcony above the sanctuary, just like I was above it all and merely a spectator to the proceedings. Then I could slip out and go down to the vestibule, out the large doors, and down the steps to the sidewalk, where I might walk down to the drugstore and buy me some candy. If Mom and Dad caught me sneaking out, they would not be pleased, so I didn’t do it often.
Haag’s Drug Store on Clifton Avenue was just a couple o’ blocks from the church. I stopped there before church to buy three packages of butterscotch, wintergreen, or wild cherry Lifesavers. Three rolls cost a quarter. If I had two quarters, I also bought three packages of Juicy Fruit, Double Mint, or Wrigley’s Spearmint chewing gum. All would be gone by the time church was over. I’d gener’ly suck on three Lifesavers at a time or chew on a big wad of several sticks of gum.
One time, I swallowed a whole wild cherry Lifesaver in church during the morning prayer. Mom had to take me out, and I thought she going to have to call an ambulance. I felt that dern thing expand sections of my throat as it slowly found its way down to my stomach. I was scared. But Mom and I went back into the church, walked back up to the third row, and took our seats. Brother W. W. King was preaching. Mom turned around a few minutes later and her smile turned into a glare when she saw me slip a few more Lifesavers into my mouth.
While sucking on those mints, I did usually listen to the sermons, unless I got distracted. We had some of the greatest ministers and musicians at our church that you could imagine. I was named after one of our preachers, Ross Minkler, who also sang and played the guitar. He started a nationally syndicated radio program in Indianapolis called the “Shady Green Pastures.”
Our ministers, who always told it pretty straight, sometimes scared me to death. I usually sat in the middle of the third row. When they looked down, I always thought they were looking at me while they talked about sin and how you’d better repent or you might burn in hell. Why else do you think I sucked so hard on two and three Lifesavers at a time, or chewed three pieces of gum at a once?
During the altar call following the service, the preacher would always make one more plea after the third stanza of the closing hymn. He’d say, “Our time is limited. We never know the day or hour of departure from this world. It could come at any time. Come now and be saved.” With that, Sister Ruth Sloan would glide back to the pulpit to lead us in the fourth and final verse of “Just As I Am.”
Although sinners were invited to come to the altar to pray at the conclusion of Sunday morning worship, the Sunday night meeting was considered to be the evangelistic service. We didn’t sing as many verses of the invitation hymn on Sunday morning as we did on Sunday night. Boy, those preachers did get fired up on Sunday night.
The preacher would talk about “sin” in a general way on Sunday morning, but on Sunday night, he’d come right out and name the sins. For example, I remember he’d say how folks was sinning by drinking, smoking, and carousing. I was always wait’n’ for him to say exactly what sins there were, so’s I’d know what not to do.
When those preachers wound up, leaned back, and finally started delivering the last part of the sermon, I would notice how they would rise up on the toes of their shiny shoes, lean over the pulpit, and start waving their hands or pointing their fingers as they brought the message to a strong conclusion.
When the closing hymn got going good, I knew there must be some sinning going on, because as my head was bowed, I’d kind of peek around to each side and in back of me and I would see folks who were “under conviction.”
I always wondered who’d be next. Sometimes I’d speculate who might be sinning and needing to repent. But then I’d get ashamed of myself for judge’n’ and then have to repent myself. I’m telling you, it was tough for a little fellow to be straight!
Our family always attended the Wednesday night Prayer Meetings. Compared to today, when these services are either not held or only a few folks show up, nearly half of our congregation attended Prayer Meeting. These meetings usually included Bible Study, very long periods of prayer, or attending to special observances, such as Foot Washing.
When we prayed on Wednesday night, we would always kneel, and I do remember that my knees got awfully sore on those wood floors. Some of those prayers were mighty long. Depending on who was praying, I’d start fumblin’ for my Lifesavers, because I knew full well which folks would launch into a prayer that would go on and on. Sometimes, I thought that some of these folks were having a contest to see who could pray the most elegantly, the longest, or both. A lot of amening and praise the Lord words were said, especially when Brother O. T. Fitzwater was praying.
You know that a little eight year-old’s attention span is not the longest. Sometimes I’d get so distracted that I’d start picking old chewing gum off the bottom of the chairs. On other nights, such as those when we observed the sacrament of Foot Washing, the service would have my full attention.
I remember my first foot washing. I was more than a little scared about what it would be like, and I confessed my fears to my father.
Dad explained the purpose of foot washing, which was to show your humility and love for a brother by washing his feet. I was afraid they might be dirty and smelling. But Dad explained how the disciples and Christ observed the sacrament of foot washing and it was good for us to do this as well. “Son,” he said, “We will go to the foot washing service and you’ll see what a wonderful blessing it will be.”
When the night came, oh I was nervous. The men went to one side of the fellowship hall, and a curtain separated the other side where the women were washing each other’s feet. The preacher read the appropriate passage from the Bible, and I guessed that his wife was doing the same thing over on t’ other side.
One of the things I was worrying about was whose feet I would wash and thinking that I might not want to wash the feet of my eighty-something year-old friend, Brother Wiley Robold. There was much shuffling around, almost like musical chairs, as folks kinda’ paired up for the washing of the feet. I ended up sitting in front of Brother Wiley Robold. I looked at his high-topped black shoes and thought, “Oh my.”
These little round aluminum foot basins were filled to three-quarters with warm water. I remember see’n’ the big pots of water on the stove in the church kitchen and knew those were part of the preparations for foot washing.
The washer of feet would put a white linen towel over his shoulder and then carefully get down on his knees with the pan of water. I went first. I’ll never forget how carefully I washed Brother Robold’s feet.
Then I got up and sat on my folding chair and old Brother Robold, as hard as it was for him, got down on his knees and washed my feet. As he did, I kind o’ looked around and noticed that others were not doing such a good job as Brother Robold and me. They’d just kind’a splash a little water around on the person’s feet. They’d lay their hands on them a little, but then dry their feet off, stand, and exchange places.
Now when you were done washing each others feet, you were both to stand and hug one another. Then after a long prayer, everyone milled about slapping each other on their backs and saying, “Praise God.” I wondered if they were a prais’n God that it was over. But as my father promised, I felt blessed, and I looked forward to being with my friends at the next service.
©
Ross L. Pipes, 2008, 2010
Fried chicken is not made often in my house due to it being FRIED. I do make it once in awhile as my daughter always asks me at least once a year and guess what last night was fried chicken night. I think the memories are the best part.
Posted by: Jude_chivers | 04/13/2011 at 05:28 PM
It enhances the flavor and the apple aroma of the wine fills the house. We love it!
Posted by: Ross Pipes | 04/13/2011 at 08:28 PM