Fried Popcorn Chicken (Unlocked)
and kindness
Originally published for paying subscribers March 13, 2022. Unlocked now!
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.
Without a word he walked up to the open hood and pulled from our engine a very important looking tube with a long piece of metal attached.
I figured that probably wasn’t supposed to do that.
“Well, we’re certainly lucky that this happened here instead of twenty miles down the road,” I said.
The mechanic smiled in a bashful sort of way and replied, “I like to think so.”
He walked back and forth between the car and the garage several times before asking us to start the engine.
My husband turned the key, and the mechanic and I both ducked as a very loud bang and a very small cloud of smoke shot out of the engine.
He bent down and picked up a spark plug from under the engine. That’s what had blown originally, and he’d tried to reattach it. We’d need to get it looked at by whoever fixed it last, the mechanic told us. They might owe us some free fixing. They’d messed it up pretty bad, he said.
He and my husband pushed the car into a parking space on the side of the garage.
He said he closed up shop at six and we were welcome to come into the office anytime until then. They had a restroom and plenty of water.
I asked him his name and reached out my hand. “Bill,” he said, extending his own. From his wrist to his fingertips, he was covered in grease. And if I hadn’t trusted him before, I sure did now.
I don’t think I could trust a mechanic with clean hands.
The next step was to call a tow truck, which I did in a panic without having thought about any of the answers to the questions I knew they’d ask me.
The lovely woman who answered the phone asked me very reasonable things like “Where are you?” and “Where would you like to be towed to?” and called me sweetie in a gentle voice when I answered “I don’t know.”
I told her I’d have to call her back.
After devising a plan, I did. When she picked up the phone, I said, “Hello, I’m the panicked woman who called you from Conifer a few minutes ago.”
This made us both laugh.
And after a few delightful minutes where she often called me “sweetie pie” and the driver hollered from somewhere in the office “where in Carolina are you from?” in response to my 910 area code (the answer is Cameron, a small horse town next to Southern Pines), they wished me Merry Christmas and said all would be well.
My husband and I took Bill up on his offer of restrooms and a warm respite in his office from the chill outside.
“How long have you all been here?” I asked as we entered the low-ceilinged building.
“Well, I’m fourth generation,” said Bill. “My family’s been here doing this since 1917. The building’s been here since 1950.”
“You don’t hear many heritage stories like that anymore,” I said.
And it’s true, so many family businesses have been sold off or liquidated. But not Bill’s. His great-grandfather, he told me, was born in a hotel across the road (no longer standing) that was popular in the 1850s. His grandfather, he said with an air of pride, was known simply as “The man of the mountains” to the people of the surrounding area. “If anyone needed anything, they knew they could count on him.”
“You’re honoring his legacy,” I told him. And he is. The nice woman named Shannon who was with Bill at the shop told me a story about how Bill laid down in the middle of the highway under a semi that had broken down while carrying an oversized load. When Bill drove away to pick up parts and came back, the state trooper was there. The state trooper saw Bill driving (very carefully) into oncoming traffic to get the parts to the truck and said, “Leave it to Long Bros to save the day.”
That legacy ends with Bill. The highway expansion project in Conifer includes paying for his land and knocking down that building and with it all the good, kind things the Long Brothers have done for the past 100 or so years. Their heritage of kindness that’s graced that small town for generations will be broken.
But then again, kindness in general has been a thing in decay.
I remember my mom and I getting into scrapes when I was a kid. Like when we were driving through a thunderstorm so bad we couldn’t see anything but the lightning strikes. We pulled off the highway in a place we’d never been. She walked right up to a little white house with a wraparound porch and knocked on the door. A kind, old man and his wife answered the door. Through the open screen, I could hear a Jimmy Stewart voice saying MGM lines on the TV. My mom apologized for interrupting their evening, but could we please sit on their porch for a while until the storm passed?
Of course, the couple replied. That was the only answer people gave when my mom asked for something like that.
I remember watching her, all kindness and charm, making people laugh even when she was panicked and being so lovely in a crisis that people couldn’t help but help her.
Kindness, she taught me, is something people generally like to give back. I would watch in awe as she spoke as sweet as an angel to people when we needed help, and they were kind as angels back.
Whenever someone turned to her in need, she gave that same kindness and gentleness of spirit back.
Bill and Shannon, in the most perfectly-located garage in the world in my opinion, showed me what was modeled to me by my mom — that people need people. There are just some things you can’t do on your own. And no matter how much you want to get out, sometimes you need someone to pull you up.
Sometimes you need the kindness of a fourth-generation mechanic in a small, Colorado mountain town.
Kindness, like our car, has broken down.
And sometimes all it takes is a good mechanic to fix it.
This story was originally published on Medium. You can find the original story on my Medium profile here. This experience and the writing of it reminded me of my time in the South and my love for fried chicken. My dad was also craving fried chicken the other day, so I decided to make it. I hope you enjoy it!
Fried Popcorn Chicken
You will need:
3/4 teaspoon cumin
1/4 teaspoon smoked paprika
2 1/2 teaspoons salt, divided
2 3/4 teaspoons garlic powder, divided
2 1/2 teaspoons black pepper, divided
3 pounds chicken breasts, cut into 1 to 2-inch pieces
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 Tablespoon curry powder
1 teaspoon paprika (the regular kind)
5 cups vegetable oil for frying
Deep-fry thermometer (a candy thermometer will also work)
What to do:
Mix together the cumin, smoked paprika, 1 1/2 teaspoons salt, 3/4 teaspoon garlic powder, and 1/2 teaspoon pepper in a small bowl.
In a 9x11 baking pan, spread out the chicken pieces evenly. Sprinkle it with the spice mixture (make sure it’s evenly covered). Let sit at room temperature for 30 minutes (you can also cover it and chill it for up to 12 hours). Letting it sit at room temperature helps it fry well.
Combine the flour, curry powder, regular paprika, and remaining salt, garlic powder, and pepper in a batter bowl with a lid (you can also use a paper bag). Add the chicken, cover or close, and shake well to coat (stirring will not work as well for coating the chicken evenly).
Pour oil into a large, deep-sided skillet or Dutch oven. It should come up to 1 inch below the rim. Clip thermometer to side of pan (or dip in the oil, making sure to not touch the bottom of the pan, every few minutes). Heat oil over medium-high heat until it reaches 350 degrees F. Be aware — it will pop loudly and sound like it’s going to explode as it heats up. I promise, it will not explode.
Putting too much chicken in at one time will make the oil cool too much, so you’ll need to work in several batches and make sure to return the heat to 350 degrees F between batches. Cook the chicken, turning it halfway through, until it’s a deep golden brown (15 minutes per batch). A meat thermometer put into the pieces should read 160 degrees F.
Transfer each batch of chicken to a wire rack (I used a regular cooling rack) to cool and to let the excess oil drip off. Make sure to put a large plate or towel under the rack to catch the drippings.
That’s it for this week! Thanks, as always, for reading. If you liked this newsletter, feel free to share it with someone! Paying subscribers can tune in next time for more on chocolate and some fun cocktails. If you know anyone who would like this post (or Food & Fodder in general!) please share!
Thanks,
Juliana Nicewarner
PS —
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I love this story. I know the charm and secure feeling of the kind of family feeling of living in an area like you describe.
Who doesn't love fried chicken? One to put on my list to try