Our weekend was rather uneventful.
It’s just how we roll.
It may have something to do with the fact that I laid down for just a minute on Saturday afternoon and woke up three-and-a-half hours later. It was my reenactment of Rip Van Winkle.
I’m surprised I didn’t wake up with a white beard down to my navel.
After I finally pulled myself together on Saturday and said, “Well, this day was wasted,” I tried to redeem myself by frying chicken. It was one of those tried-and-true Southern recipes (because we all know that Southern women can cook, and that they mock us Northern gals and our boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese), that involved me first soaking the chicken in buttermilk.
(And… before I go further… I should mention that MY fried chicken was different from the chicken you might find in Georgia, because listen: NO BONES. There are not enough Valium tablets in this world to help me with the act of touching chicken bones. Or any bones, for that matter. If fried chicken at my house happens… it happens as boneless, skinless chicken breasts, or it just doesn’t happen.)
Now, I know that buttermilk is pretty much a Southern staple, but this was probably the second time I’ve ever purchased it in my entire life. However, when a Southern woman says SOAK THAT CHICKEN and DO IT IN THE BUTTERMILK, you just run with it, because they’re the ones who know how to slap chicken on a plate that will make you cry with all the goodness.
So my chicken soaked. And then I dredged it in flour and cornstarch like a boss, and I spent a SWEET FOREVER standing over my stovetop, frying it up. I’m fairly certain that I was nineteen years old when I started all the frying, and now… well… I’m not nineteen. Suffice it to say that last night’s meal was more labor intensive than building the Great Pyramids was.
And then… like wild cavemen who hadn’t eaten real meat, other than the occasional chipmunk, since that time Gred ate those WILD BERRIES straight off the bush and danced in circles away from the camp, only to come home with a wooly mammoth slung over his shoulder that he’d choked out with his bare hands, the boys at my house devoured it.
Fourteen hours of cooking followed by eight minutes of eating.
It’s why the BAKES IN TWELVE SHORT MINUTES, take-and-bake pizza place knows me by my first name here in Small Town.
Oh! And Hubs and I abandoned our children for a couple of hours today, so we could zip to the cinema with our friends, Jodi and Gabe, to see God’s Not Dead. I baked pizza rolls in the oven for the kids at home (We left all five of our children together at our house, but don’t worry… Ciara and the boy are both thirteen, and Ciara is probably more mature than I am.), and we had popcorn, with extra butter, for dinner.
And the movie? Oh, y’all! It was fantastic! I think I love the Newsboys even more than I did before the matinee this afternoon, and I loved them quite a bit this morning. Hubs and I loved the message of the movie, so run… run like the wind… and go see it. Your heart will be warmed, and you’ll leave the theater happy.
And then? Well… just look who is officially twenty-five entire months old now?
Twenty-five months ago, we brought that bundle of love home, in the middle of a spring blizzard. He has kept us on our toes ever since, and I can honestly say… I would choose to do it all over again.
We love that kid.
And his big brother, too.
We just don’t love frying chicken around here for dinner; that’s what frozen pizza rolls are for.
Happy Sunday, y’all.