the night fried chicken stole my soul.
Nick and I have been known to consume an entire pound of bacon on our own. In one sitting. In five or ten glorious minutes. After a feat of such measure, we typically sit, full and satisfied, bacon grease sinking into our bloodstream, house smelling like a diner on a Sunday morning, happy, content, basking in the sunny feeling that only a pound of crispy bacon can create.
Simply, I love grease and fat and anything cooked in its artery-clogging sweetness. So, last night, when we agreed to go to Stroud’s with my dad and sister and brother-in-law, I was ready to eat. I ordered chicken fingers and cottage fries. I piled on the chicken gravy and salt. I skipped my salad to save room for the fried bits of heaven. But I didn’t skip the giant deep-fried shrimp appetizer. My dad said they import them from Japan, which allows for the exorbitant price of $3.75 each. Japan, maybe. But regardless, it was bigger than my hand and tougher than shrimp should be, but it was deep fried and delectable and so obviously not organic. Some may have called it shrimp on steroids. I called it heaven.
When dinner came, I started in on the chicken fingers, and then the cottage fries and gravy, but the strangest thing happened. Midway through my first chicken finger, after about 10 cottage fries, my stomach was finished. I felt like a brick had been dropped down my throat and into my gut. I wanted to die. I couldn’t even muster two bites of the famous Stroud’s cinnamon rolls that are great that night but terrible the next day. I was finished. Done. Tired. Gross. Bloated. And I had hardly eaten a thing.
I could make only one conclusion. In my quest for health, I conditioned my body to not accept pan-fried or deep fried taste sensations. My insides simply rejected it. No matter how badly I wanted to put that crispy chicken into my mouth, chew and swallow, I just couldn’t do it.
Walking to the car, I felt defeated. I was ready to conquer some Stroud’s, but instead, I’m afraid it conquered me.