JUNE 2020 23
Indiana-Style Fried Chicken
PHOTO AT LEFT
TOTAL 1 HR; SERVES 8Shaking bone-in, skin-on chicken
pieces one at at time in a paper bag
with the flour and seasoning evenly
coats each piece without making a
mess (a plastic bag will work well, too).
For best results, keep a careful eye on
the temperature of the oil while frying
so the chicken cooks evenly and gets
crispy without soaking up excess oil.11 / 2 cups all-purpose flour (about 6^3 / 8
oz.)
1 / 4 cup coarsely ground black
pepper
3 Tbsp. kosher salt, plus more to
taste
6 lb. bone-in, skin-on chicken
pieces (any combination of
drumsticks, thighs, wings, and
breasts) (any breasts larger than
9 oz. cut in half)
5 cups vegetable oil- Combine flour, pepper, and salt in a
brown paper lunch bag; close bag, and
shake vigorously until pepper and salt
are evenly distributed. Working with 1
piece at a time, add chicken to flour
mixture; close bag, and shake to coat
chicken. Place coated chicken on a
baking sheet. - Heat oil in a Dutch oven over
medium to 350¡F. (Oil should remain at
350¡F for frying, so adjust heat from
medium to medium-high as needed to
maintain temperature.) - Working in 3 or 4 batches, add
chicken to hot oil, being sure not to
overcrowd Dutch oven. Fry chicken,
turning often to ensure even cooking,
until skin is crispy and browned and a
thermometer inserted in thickest por-
tion of meat registers 165¡F, 10 to 15
minutes for drumsticks, thighs, and
wings and 15 to 20 minutes for breasts
(depending on size of pieces). - Transfer cooked chicken to a bowl or
baking sheet lined with paper towels;
sprinkle with salt to taste. —ANN HOOD
WINE Medium-bodied, juicy Oregon
Pinot Noir: 2018 Averaen Willamette
Valley
bowl that he’d lined with a paper towel. This was the perfect
time to pass by and pick off the crispiest bits. Like all mothers,
my mother somehow knew what we were up to, even though
she was two rooms away watching some black-and-white movie
on Sunday Afternoon at the Movies. “Leave the chicken alone!”
During college, my pals and I made a yearly spring break
trek to Fort Lauderdale, driving my peppy red car almost the
length of Interstate 95, straight through, over 20 hours. My
father fried up enough chicken to get us halfway there. It sat in
a cooler nestled between the backseat riders so we could easily
reach for yet another piece as New Jersey and Maryland flew
by us. We counted on that chicken for sustenance, for penny-
pinching, for a little bit of home even as we struggled to leave
it behind.
After my father developed emphysema, my mother took over
the fried chicken. She was a master of many things: spaghetti
and meatballs, eggplant parmesan, lasagna. But her fried chick-
en lacked the perfect crispiness outside and
just-right moistness inside that my father’s
had. Still, with its peppery, salty taste, it was
better than most fried chicken, and even as
an adult I loved walking into my childhood
home and seeing that red bowl piled high
with chicken waiting for me.
A few years ago, I married a man who is
famous for his fried chicken. He brines it,
then cools it in the fridge for a day, then
dredges it in seasoned flour, dips it in but-
termilk, and dredges it again, which is to
say his fried chicken, though delicious, is labor-intensive. He
made it, this dear man, for my mother in the days before she
died, carefully brining and cooling and dredging and dipping.
After she’d eaten it, she took my hand and whispered, “This
boy works too hard. He should just make it like Daddy.” She
pulled me closer and added, “Daddy’s tastes better.” By then,
Daddy had been dead 20 years; my brother Skip 35; my daughter
Grace 15. Our family ever dwindling.
Since Mom died, every year or so I find myself making a fried
chicken pilgrimage to Indiana—to St. Leon Tavern in West
Harrison or The Brau Haus or Wagner’s in Oldenburg—because
I can’t get it the way I love best, which is to drive to my parents’
house and walk in the kitchen, where it sits waiting for me in
a big red bowl. I can’t hover by my father’s elbow waiting for
the chicken to finally be done, can’t pick off the crispiest parts
as theme music from an old black-and-white movie swells,
can’t hear my mother calling, “Leave the chicken alone!” Instead,
I have to board a plane to Cincinnati and drive an hour past
acres of cornfields, eating my chicken anonymously among
strangers. One bite, though, and I’m back in that wood-paneled
kitchen, my father at the fryolator with a beer in his hand, and
my family—all dead now, every one of them—is alive again, and
together, waiting at the table for supper, for fried chicken. One
bite takes me there, gratefully.“We counted on that
chicken for suste-
nance, for penny-
pinching, for a little
bit of home even as
we struggled
to leave it behind.”FW_0620_Obsessions.indd 23 FINAL 4/15/20 5:32 PM