My parents grew up during the Depression. As a result, they play it safe with their money. They probably even hide it in their underwear. According to my dad, as a kid he had to kill and eat chickens to survive and once he became a teenager he refused to eat chicken anymore. To this day, he hates chicken and won’t eat it. This always struck me as odd because isn’t that kinda what we do with chickens? Anyway, when I was growing up we would always have chicken if dad was out of town. It was like a big chicken fiesta buffet! When he came back home, we always hid the evidence…we didn’t want to be judged for our chicken indulgences. These days, my dad doesn’t travel so my mom doesn’t really have a chicken outlet anymore. She makes all the meals and out of consideration for him she steers clear of chicken even though she loves chicken. Well…this chicken issue came to a head yesterday. I talked with my mom on the phone. All she talked about was a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken (I realize it is called KFC now, but my mom kept saying Kentucky Fried Chicken in her overly southern accent). She said, “I’m putting my foot down and having myself a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.” I laughed. She didn’t laugh. This indicated the seriousness of the bucket of chicken. “Your dad can just have a hot dog, because I’m having chicken!” “I might even have three pieces!” “It will be fried and greasy!” “God Bless America.” She just went on and on. I’m proud of her for rebelling and getting her chicken. You can only keep a southern woman away from a bucket of fried chicken for just so long.