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| Eating fried chicken in the cottage |
For some time, I’ve been craving fried chicken, so tonight we ordered dinner for four from Bonnell’s Curbside meals. During quarantine, when restaurants saw their business diminish and disappear, Fort Worth’s Jon Bonnell found a way to keep his Bonnell’s Fine Cuisine active. He packaged curbside meals for four, priced them reasonably, and sold them literally on the curb by his restaurant each afternoon, Tuesday through Saturday. They were so successful, he has continued the tradition to this day. We have had them a few times—mostly the Beef Stroganoff. Several of the entrees are pasta which isn’t popular here, usually one is shrimp which I can’t eat, and one is smoked chicken and pulled brisket which doesn’t appeal. The Stroganoff though is delicious, and I still want to try the meat loaf. Tonight’s chicken came with mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, salad, and brownies. And the amount is generous. So craving satisfied.
Jacob almost never ever eats Saturday
night dinner with us. This afternoon when I asked if he was joining us, he
said, “Probably not. It’s Saturday night, you know.” I replied, “Sometimes in
life you have to make choices. We’re having fried chicken.” He said with a grin
he’d have to think about that. Somewhat to my surprise, he showed up for
supper.
So now I’m full and happy—and waiting
until I’m hungry enough to eat the remaining brownie.
We never had fried chicken in
my home when I was growing up, which may account for my fascination with it
now. I honestly don’t know if my mom ever tried to fry a chicken. (She did
teach me early on how to cut up a chicken, something the girls in my family
refuse to do—Jordan in particular won’t touch raw poultry, and for some years
my function at Thanksgiving and Christmas was to prepare the turkey for
roasting. They’ve gotten better now about it.) Not only did Mom not want to fry
in all that oil, Dad, the proper Englishman, did not tolerate picking up food in
our hands. A sandwich at lunch at the kitchen table was okay but never at the dinner
table (we ate with linen tablecloth and napkins every night and no passed food—Dad
served the plates as the head of the household; no, we were not rich, just
shaped by his Canadian/British background). I have never myself tried to fry
chicken, and I find “oven fried” a poor substitute. But tonight I was thinking
that what attracts me as much as anything is the slightly peppery seasoning of
the coating. I think that’s a southern thing.
Tonight may have been fried
chicken night at the cottage, but it is the last night of the Southwestern Exposition
and Stock Show, lovingly known in Fort Worth as the stock show and in the past
as the “Fat Stock Show.” The powers that be dropped the “Fat” some years ago. Tonight,
the owner of the champion steer, a high school girl, is $340,000 richer—I’m no
judge but her snow-white steer is one of the most beautiful steers I’ve ever
seen. I think a conglomerate usually buys the winner, so it is spared from the
slaughterhouse, and the owner is spared that dilemma between emotion and profit.
Rodeo always makes me
nostalgic. When my children were little, going to the rodeo was a rite of
passage. Each had to wait until they were judged old enough, and then it was
one of the highlights of the year. We routinely went with another family for
several years and dined on the ribs and sausage offered by Coburn’s Catering, a
longtime culinary institution. That family moved away, but then we developed a
tradition of all the Alters coming for rodeo—the performance on Friday night,
prowling the grounds, especially the Midway Saturday afternoon, and dinner at Joe
T.’s Saturday night. It was an annual reunion that I truly looked forward to.
Gradually the tradition fell apart—with kids in school, it was hard for
families ot get away and parents had other demands. Now, some years Megan comes
with a friend, but she didn’t even do that this year. Jordan and Christian have
gone several times, with friends, and Jacob has gone at least once. My rodeo
days are long over, not just because the arena is not accessible for me but
because I’ve joined the ranks of those who don’t want to see the brutality of
rodeo, especially the bull riding. Having written a bit about rodeo, I know
they take every precaution for man and beast, but it can still be brutal. I don’t
want to see anyone or any animal hurt. But it sure does provide some great
memories.Grands at the rodeo, back in the day
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