“No Matter What They Take From me, They Can’t Take Away my KFC…”®

Super Mrs. C.
4 min readSep 8, 2022

I’m ashamed to admit this, but since confession is good for the soul, I hope that this will help some other gluttonous gobbler see the light. This incident has been such a source of shame to me that not even Super Mr. C., my Steadfast Mister, knows of it. (Until now.)

Photo courtesy of Dreamstime

Here goes.

I am black. I am female. I’m something of a “goody-goody,” so I don’t smoke, drink, or do drugs. I do, however, have one major jones. I LOVE fried chicken. I really love fried chicken. I will go out of my way for it; not just a little bit, but a lot. It’s a stereotype, but I don’t care.

We rarely fry at home, so I don’t fry chicken. There are no fast-food outlets near us, and we don’t own a car, so getting to one is inconvenient. We can’t visit one on a whim. I get to indulge my appetite for that finger-licking goodness only twice a year. One is when my husband and I may be in a car and pass an outlet. The other is when I visit my mother in another state, who has a KFC® restaurant reasonably near her house. That’s it.

One day; one rainy day, I must stress, I had an uncontrollable craving (I almost wrote “crazing,” which is more accurate) for some KFC®. Uncontrollable crazing. My mouth was watering, which is a polite way of saying I was drooling like one of Pavlov’s dogs. No restaurant nearby. No car. Chilly, gray, and raining. Pre-COVID, so no home delivery. What to do?

Yield to taste-bud temptation, of course. I let fried chicken be the boss of me.

Image courtesy of Dreamstime

I called a cab, for which I had to spend money. I subjected my vulnerable, styled coif to the whims of the rain. I went to spend money on prepared food when I could have bought at least one bag of groceries for the same price. I was going to have to explain to my husband how that fried chicken aroma, aka “nostril nirvana,” was present in the house. I didn’t care. Out I went. I bought a five-piece dinner with an extra side of potato wedges. The moment I got home, I tore that box open and went all-out Caveman on two pieces and an order of wedges, and I hid the rest in our basement freezer.

Super Mrs. C.

Retired teacher. Humorous essayist about Life. Serious essayist about politics and “race.” Aspiring world saver. Cat mama. We can do better than this.