NSFW – Fatback Media

Ever since starting my new diet, i.e. the one that has made me fuckin’ ripped and makes me constantly have to fight off highly tanned supermodel debutants from the deep south [back off bitches...seat's taken], I have really started missing good ole southern comfort food like my granny used to make. Specifically: fried chicken. Remember fried chicken? Yeah, way before Mcnugget’s and Chix tenders, and fingers and all that other bullshit, people would take WHOLE chicken parts, soak ‘em in buttermilk, roll ‘em in flour and fry the shit out of ‘em. Fried Chicken, esp. a la my granny simply. Fucking. Rocks.  I live in Boston now [and I'm on a health kick- sorry granny] so, fried chicken is a thing of the past. However, now that I’m at fighting weight and my ninja-Aikido skillz are at peak form, I may just go out and get me yard bird, fry the shit out of it and make some biscuit gravy. Of course, I’ll have to eat it when my supemodel girlfirend is out training for the marathon though, because she’s not having any part of any food that begins with fried. In fact, I’m hard pressed to get anything even cooked when she makes dinner [I’m all for raw vegetables, but potatoes are not meant to eaten like  apples, they were meant to be baked, then fried, then scalloped then submerged into hot pig fat and  bacon bits…but I digress.

Down South, frying chicken (or anything else for that matter) is an art. Your choice of fat, whether it be lard, peanut oil, bacon grease or good ole butter is merely the beginning. You need the right vessel, heat source and breader/seasoning. A mistep in any one of these categories could spell disaster, not only for your dinner guests, but for your cooking space as well. Many well-intended frying seesions have ended in an uncontrollable house fire.