This tale is about the last time your mother went to the Kentucky Fried Chicken. She had chicken and a biscuit.
She grabbed a biscuit out of the biscuit machine, shook it up like a pair of lucky dice, wolfed it down, then got into her car and drove away, as if she had not been there. She left her bucket of chicken on the pickup counter.
Your mom is a total animal.
She didn’t often eat chicken. She mostly liked to eat seeds and berries, but she hated that she had to eat them indoors because the birds overhead would swoop down and eat them when she stepped outside.
She liked to be in traffic, and I recall your mother driving halfway up the street and poking her head out of the car window every few minutes.
She hated the smell of the chicken. I remember her being embarrassed to tell you it was her least favorite thing because she didn’t want you to feel bad for smelling like chicken yourself.
Sometimes she was embarrassed about her love of chicken. Once a month, on second paydays, she would bake chicken for dinner. It was the only time in the month that she could take the time to do so. Otherwise, it was to the KFC.
She would bring her own spoon to the table during meal times and just get down with a spoon at her homemade chicken dinner.
I was born in 1987 and I lived with your mom (not my mom, or the one she was with when I was born).
I was four when your mom took me and my brother to a chicken farm run by a woman named Linda, who later married my friend’s dad (another cousin of yours who I also spent a lot of time with when we were younger).
Your grandmother was the head of her own restaurant. She had all of your aunties, siblings, and cousins in the restaurant serving the food and cooking the food and cleaning the joint. I’m not sure of the name of the restaurant. It was probably “Elle’s Chicken”.
There, your mom learned to love chicken.
My mom didn’t even want to talk to me.