At one point, during his talk on fried chicken, Bill Addison described an example he once saw, starting with the phrase, "They boned the chicken…" There was, I swear, audible gasping in the audience. It may have been irresponsible of him to keep talking, lest someone faint and hit their head.
The fabulous Sara Roahen, while describing a series of meetings with makers of boudin, the Cajun pork and rice sausage: "Boudin…doesn't photograph well."
More on fried chicken: the inimitable Eugene Walter once described Northern fried chicken. A reading: "…an ancient fowl, encased in cement, and tormented in hot grease for an eternity." Do I agree? Not necessarily. Do I tip my hat? Absolutely.
Taylor Grocery serves, by their estimation, the best catfish in the South. I had to try a piece to be sure. Then I had to try the other. And then I had to try some hush puppies, to cleanse my palate before trying a third. Then I went to dinner. True story.
There was much revelry, fried food, and whiskey. Frankly, it was all a blur of fried food and whiskey. Sandy Oliver, Yankee and food historian, was right in the thick of it. "My inner Calvinist is deeply disturbed," she said.
Holy shit! Holy shit! I met Roy Blount Jr.! I met Roy Blount Jr. and, wracked with guilt over not paying for my subscription to the Oxford American, this is the first thing I said to him: "I owe you money!" I met Roy Blount Jr. and he thinks I'm a jackass!
There, but by the grace of God, go I.
Still more on chicken: John T. Edge lives down the street from a Chevron station. In this Chevron station, you can buy chicken-on-a-stick. This chicken-on-a-stick is not an acceptable food. And yet, EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI DRUNK ENOUGH TO LOSE THEIR INHIBITIONS BUYS THE CHICKEN-ON-A-STICK. I found evidence to this the next morning.
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