Mama's Favorite

Mama’s Favorite

Fried chicken was a treat when I was growing up.  Mom used a big, black cast iron skillet, seasoned with years of use.  The chicken was always crisp, golden brown, and done, but never dry.  We also knew that fried chicken in Texas in the summertime was a labor of love.  Our house was not air-conditioned, and the kitchen was almost unbearably hot.  In addition, even if you bought your chicken at the store, as opposed to raising them, they only came one way – whole.  That meant they had to be cut in pieces before frying. 

I was one of four children at home, and we all liked white meat.  Mom and Dad would eat the drumsticks and thighs, but the rest of us fought over the white meat.  That created a problem, because there were only three pieces of white meat, excluding wings and including the wishbone, and there were four of us.  Most of the time, we could talk our youngest sister into sharing with Dad and Mom, but the rest of us really wanted the white meat and would try to start the serving plate so that we got first pick. 

Occasionally, we would ask if a piece was white or dark meat.  Mom’s philosophy was if we couldn’t tell the difference, we shouldn’t care which it was.  So, we would often take a piece, thinking it was a small breast, only to find out it was a thigh.  Oh, what disappointment it was when we took that first bite!  

I had long suspected that our only brother John was Mom’s favorite because he was the only boy, but I will never forget the day it was confirmed.  John was doing some work for a neighbor and wasn’t home, but the rest of us sat down around the table.  After giving thanks, someone started the chicken around.  By the time it got to me, I searched long and hard, only to find that there was no white meat left. 

I saw the wishbone on one sister’s plate and a piece of the breast on the other sister’s plate.  I asked Mom where the second piece of breast was, and she replied, “Well, you see what’s left.”  I began to complain about something being wrong with the chicken, unsure that I wanted to eat any of a chicken shaped like this one had evidently been.  I finally gave up my argument ate a drumstick, deciding that any chicken was better than none. 

Later that evening, I opened the kitchen cabinet to get a glass.  Imagine my surprise to find, lying under a napkin on a saucer, the rest of the chicken breast.  Mom had put it up for John for his dinner when he got home from work!  I could not believe it.  Mom had not lied to us about the breast; I just hadn’t asked the right question.  Wow, did I ever give both John and her a hard time about him being her baby boy while we girls were chopped liver!  Though I knew that Mom loved us all, equally, I did enjoy teasing her about John being her favorite whenever I wanted to watch her squirm, just a little!

I am so thankful for a Heavenly Father who assures us, in Acts 10:34, that He shows no favoritism but accepts anyone who comes to Him through the sacrifice of His son, the Lord Jesus Christ.  I am grateful that when He looks at me He doesn’t see male or female, nationality, ethnicity, or social status, based on Galatians 3:28.  Instead, all He sees is His child, washed in the blood, forgiven, redeemed, and beloved.

© 2011 Gerry Sisk

(10/12/11)