Confessions of a Fried Chicken Addict

Sunday is fried chicken day in the South. Ask anybody.

Last Sunday my wife and I were in church. I was suffering the DT’s from my Lenten vow of no fried chicken.

We’re sitting in row three, front left. It’s not our regular ‘place.’ Row two is. Interlopers, apparently Northern refugees, have evicted us. I’m annoyed. In the Methodist tradition pew positions are sacrosanct—only death opens up a new space. You just don’t sit in someone else’s seat!

Our pews fill from the back forward. It’s easier to sleep or exit early without detection in case of tummy tantrums or visiting preachers. Plus, one can beat the Baptists to the buffet—no easy feat. But I prefer action, so we sit down front.

Sitting up close has perks. Weird facial grimaces, head fakes and tongue wags tend to liven up dull sermons. Such silliness spooks the preacher. He stammers, struggling to locate his spot on the iPad. Snickers are heard. “You’ll get yours,” his eyes say. They cast a vengeful glance.

First Sundays are always Communion Sunday. But they compete with fried chicken day everywhere else. Church crowds thin out early on this day. Contrition and absolution can’t compete with fried chicken. Nothing can. The church tried it once. Big mistake. The youth group cooked. Bad idea. The ER was packed later that day.

The day’s sermon was, “Man Cannot Live by Bread Alone.” For emphasis, our preacher digs deep and discovers the word, “efficacious.” He likes the sound and gesticulates wildly when using it…twelve times in the prologue alone. It portends disaster for me.

Why? “Efficacious” was my grandmother’s favorite word. She used it while cooking Crisco-greased fried chicken in her iron skillet. “Child, fried chicken is efficacious for whatever ails you,” she’d say. So, by simple word association, the preacher sets off an intense burning lust in me for fried chicken.

There’s plenty of space on a Methodist pew. Sitting elbow to elbow is not the Methodist way. We’re not like Presbyterians…we need space. It’s a ‘touch’ thing. Like, who sits on an airplane and enjoys rubbing skin with a total stranger? It’s not what Methodists do. Nasty rumors and lurid gossip might arise. Today, there’s plenty of room on our pew.

My troubles begin when the preacher gets warmed up. He punishes the congregation with lashes of the “efficacious” whip, 49 times at least. Suddenly, from the pit of my stomach, a gurgle emerges. It grows, growls, and rumbles like a ravenous dog longing for a drumstick. It’s impossible to suppress.

I fumble through my jacket for crackers. Crumbs. Gum. Anything. Nothing’s there. I suck my thumb, try to ignore it. Useless. It gets louder. People fidget, become unsettled. They slide sideways, close ranks. Elbows touch, proximity shrinks. My hunger pangs rage. My stomach roars in the final throes of starvation.

Before the pew totally empties, Communion is served. Just in time. We kneel at the altar. I savor a morsel of stale bread. Chase it with a sip of grape juice. I confess everything. My stomach is assuaged. The noise subsides. I contemplate remaining there for a second helping, just in case. But my wife gives me ‘the look.’ We return to our pew. It’s now empty.

Time crawls. I check my watch. Ten minutes to go. The church empties faster. Anxiety assails me as we sing one last song…a dirge. It has ten verses. My stomach screams. I picture a long queue for the Sunday buffet. I fear only the dregs will remain.

Finally, the benediction. With heads bowed, eyes closed, the preacher prays, reminding us that man cannot live by bread alone. “Amen!” I shout. I can smell the chicken cooking.

The church empties before the preacher can again utter that cursed word, “efficacious.” The exits are jammed. Pushing and shoving ensues. Canes and walkers lay strewn in the aisles like an abandoned battlefield. The lame walk, the blind see. Such is the salvation power of fried chicken on Sunday.

We slip out the side door and sprint to the car, all the while praying for forgiveness for what I am about to do. In the future, I’ll be more circumspect with my Lenten vows.

Overall the day ends well. The collection plates overflow, I get my fix of fried chicken and the club cook leaves early. Only a couple of drum sticks remained and no banana pudding.

And so it goes in the South……Sunday is fried chicken day. Get in line!

Bud Hearn
March 24, 2017