There are certain smells that can trigger such a strong memory for me. Southern fried chicken reminds me of my Mamaw. I was raised in the South by strong Southern women, my dad was there as well, but nothing compares to the women in my life.
I reflect back as I am older on the rich and colorful life that I had growing up. My Mamaw was a strikingly beautiful woman. She worked from the moment her feet hit the ground until late in the evening. She didn’t work because she “had to” but because of the deep love she had for her family. I used to sit on the counter in her immaculate kitchen and watch her skilled hands cutting up the chicken and getting ready for frying. I could sit there for hours watching her and talking to her. I would ask a million questions and she would take such patience and care to answer each one. When I asked why her chicken was so good, she told me that she had love in her hands and that is what made her chicken taste so good. Her mashed potatoes, we called them “fluffies” in our family, were legendary and I am doing you a favor by not describing her gravy! It was unbelievable; you would be happy eating it all by itself.
I have tried for years to recreate her fried chicken, I have come close but I don’t feel like it quite makes the grade. Tonight, I gave it another try. My granddaughter, Dakota, was helping me in the kitchen. She is three going on sixteen and I can see that she will follow in the long line of strong women in our family.
Just like when I was a little girl, she loves sitting on the counter while I cook. The chicken began to cook and the familiar smells began to fill my kitchen. I was whipping the “fluffies” as fast as my arm could go when Dakota tilted her head to the side and said, “Noni? Why is your chicken so good?” I never hesitated with my answer, “I have love in my hands, and that is the magic that makes my fried chicken taste so good.” Her beautiful little face brightened up and she said, “Feel my hands, they have love in them too!” Her little hands cupped my face and pulled me close. Talking nose to nose I said, “I can feel the love in your hands, Dakota!” Beaming back at me, she whispered, “I will be a good cook like you, Noni!” Fighting back the tears I just shook my head and gave her a big hug.
Sitting on the counter, behind where Dakota was sitting, is the personalized cookbook that my three daughters made for me for Christmas, it contains all our family recipes. The cover is a picture of my Mamaw cooking in her kitchen. The circle of our family continues. I hope my Mamaw was looking down watching the two of us cooking together and I hope she was proud.
Terri Heimerman 