John Wesley wrote of his reaction to salvation through Jesus Christ. At the risk of sacrelige, I have also found my heart strangely warmed tonight. By chicken.

Not having been to the grocery store to speak of in a week (if not more), I was on the hunt for something I could create for supper with the chicken in my freezer. Having bought buttermilk this past weekend for a biscuit-jonesin’ I had, at Mike‘s suggestion I cut up the chicken, soaked it in buttermilk, dredged it in flour and spices, and dropped the delicious nuggets into a shallow pan of hot oil. As they popped and sizzled, I felt the stresses of my day evaporate. My heart was lightened.

I belong here – in my kitchen – frying chicken. Born and raised in Georgia and having never lived anywhere else, it was as if all my grandmas and aunts and great-grandmas and great-aunts were assembling in the Throne Room of Heaven and pouring out their blessings over me in the form of crispy, tender pieces of fried poultry.

And it was good. I mean really good. I made some dang tasty fried chicken. And all is right with the world this night.

* When I promptly called my parents after supper to tell them what I’d done, my Daddy’s words were, “I tell you what, your Grandmommie [his mom] and your MoMo [Mama’s mama] sure fried some chicken in their days.” I knew it.

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