My Name Is John And I Cannot Fry Chicken
Well that was humbling.
Last night I made some sort of chicken morgh, you know with the whole cloves, crushed cardamom seeds, onions, yoghurt, and etc. The kids tolerated it. Tonight they asked for "normal food". Normal food? What have I been feeding you, abnormal food? I search the world, bring interesting and enlightening food to your ungrateful little maws and this is the thanks I get?! Well g--d--- I'll make you normal food, I'll make you fried chicken, and when your arteries seize up you can be sorry -
So I deboned some chicken legs and thighs, prepared an egg wash, doctored up a bowl of normal white flour with normal stuff like garlic powder and Mrs. Dash and oregano and, well, um. Er. Ick.
The truth is, I'm not very good at good ole battered fried chicken.
I can pan-fry a skinless thigh to crispy golden brown and healthy-licious. I can stir fry it into clever unpronounceable Asiatic dishes. I can braise it in butter and wine just like the socialist Frenchies. But I can't make an American-as-Southern Comfort-and-Smith & Wesson sort of Colonel-style fried chicken.
Dinner was edible, and the kids liked it, because - oh the poor dears, Daddy's feeble effort is all they've ever known, and they think its real, sob, fried, sob, chicken [face in hands].
So, please help me. What is the secret to golden brown, crunchy crust, moist on the inside, salty, meaty, fried chicken?