Fried Chicken
Karen WeHunt Harden, Contributing Writer | wharden1950@gmail.com
My Daddy’s parents, Holly and Molly WeHunt, lived in Clinton, SC, up the street from the mill and around the corner from the drug store where I encountered buttered pecan ice cream for the first time. Molly raised five children, kept a spotless house, changed her curtains every season, and worked in the mill. She also cut grass, tended her flower beds, and the area outside her back door was as pretty as the front. Holly worked in the mill, rocked on the front porch, and wrote to Daddy often while he was in the Army during WWII.
While Aunt Frances and Cousin Terri Huntsinger were living with Holly and Molly, I spent a Friday night with them, and on Saturday morning, Grandmother Molly was frying chicken for breakfast. Mother never fried chicken for breakfast – only on Sundays. I was shocked since Mother’s way of doing things was all I knew to be right.
I learned to be flexible. There is more than one way to accomplish a task. Do not judge the method; savor the result.
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Author: Tracy Sanders
