Fried Popcorn Chicken

and a story about kindness

My husband and I were driving home from Denver through windy mountain roads. The sun was setting bright and orange, lining the snowy mountain tops with a warm glow that contrasted beautifully against the blue-green of the trees.

We live in a small mountain town southwest of Denver. And this drive from the city to our home is familiar to us. The first thirty minutes take you through a series of progressively smaller towns, which eventually peter out into nothing more than a few stand alone ranch houses.

We were in the last of these dwindling towns, holding hands and enjoying the way the light played across the dash, when a loud pop snapped us out of our peace. The engine was clunking like an old washing machine filled with heavy-zippered jackets. We pulled off the road.

It wasn’t until we opened up the hood, which sputtered and clunked in a vague and angry way, that we realized we’d pulled off the highway and into the front lot of a mechanic’s garage — Long Bros Garage.

I’d never broken down before. My husband, luckily, has broken down at least six times. And this was, so far, much better than the time his front axle split in half when he was turning around in a parking lot.

A few minutes into our pretension of figuring out the problem, the garage door opened with a dramatic swish and the mechanic walked out, framed like a super hero, toolbox in hand.