BREAD CRUMBS, DILL, A BUNCH OF SPICES
BY EVAN WILLIAMS
Fried chicken is, to me, synonymous with family reunions. Everyone and their cousin—literally— shuffles in a line that may wind down the hallway depending on the host’s floor plan, picks up in turn their paper plate, their napkin, their piece of hot chicken, their mashed potatoes, their corn, and any dessert offered. They reshuffle to a card table, the kids’ table, or stand in a doorway gnawing away. Beyond the greasy golden crunch of a proper breading, the best part of that line is chatting with any number of aunts, uncles, cousins, family friends, and the temporary partners thereof. Something about the smell, the way the salt and the oil harmonize with the sugars in the tea and cookies, the way it all seeps into the walls and seems to interfere pleasantly with sound itself, forms a camaraderie between anyone lucky enough to be in that line. My apartment, a five-person experiment turning friends of friends into close friends, has been coming together every Friday night for dinner since we began sharing the space in September. Having started with a humble Trader Joe’s gnocchi, we’ve honed our culinary abilities since. Highlights include chili made from a family recipe, hot pot, shakshuka, colada morada, and pies upon pies. Every dinner bell rung brought the apartment closer, but none quite so much as our fried chicken. A fried chicken bond puts covalent bonds to shame. It is not only the ultimate comfort food, but also the ultimate companion food. No one is closer to others than when they’re sharing homemade fried chicken. My roommate, Dessa, took it to the next level.
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bite | winter 2021