Runaway Fried Chicken

Momma knew every one of her chickens. And she knew when each bird’s time was up.

I must have been 11 or 12, the oldest among us girls left at home, when early one morning Momma joined Pop as he set out for the river. Before leaving, she threw some scratch corn out in the yard, and while the chickens were eating, she grabbed a young hen and set her alone in a special coop.

“Sallie Ann,” she said, “dis yah chicken is fo’ dinnah. Kill it, clean it, and fix it, da way I show ya.