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