Let's just say, I was happy to get the heck out of dodge when quittin' time came. I stomped hard out of there like Miss Sophia, straight out to my car. It was cool, so I let down the windows and turned the music up real loud.
There are about 20 streetlights between my workplace in Midtown and my home in the downtown Atlanta neighborhood P-Town.
And I caught every. single. one. Every single light.
*Lee sitting at redlight grimacing hard and tapping fingers on steering wheel*
But the drive was GOOD. I screeched out my drivetime music Marvin Gaye's "Distant Lover"... you know, the long, long live version.
The one where Marvin says "Lawd Have Mercy" before the bridge.
I smiled at a few memories surrounding this sexy song (which I will post about later, lol).
I was feeling GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD.
I pulled into my garage, turned off the engine, and sat there listening to the song until it went off. I grabbed all my junk I lug off to work from the backseat and went into the house.
The kitchen light was on.
And there stood my baby sister Kentucky, looking shocked out of her mind.
The garage opens up into the laundry room, which leads into the kitchen. I stood there in the dark watching her. I threw all my stuff on top of the dryer and went into the kitchen to see what she was cooking.
She was busy with a tray of raw chicken wings... a whole LOT of chicken wings.
"Dang, girl," I said. "You getting down, ain't cha?"
"My cycle is on!" she said.
I blinked. I know how she is during her red dollar days. She usually craves chocolate cake. Not sure what was up with the chicken. Thought she would be making some chocolate covered chicken.
That don't sound good at all, man.
"I was gonna fry some chicken, and I was trying to do it before you came home."
I looked at the clock. It was 7:45 pm, my normal time of getting home. Not sure how she was gonna fry a gang of chicken before I got home, seeing that she'd just made it home after seven herself.
"Whatever, gal. Don't matter. I have no cravings for meat. None whatsoever."
"I didn't want to tempt you," she wailed.
I walked into my bedroom (just off the kitchen). I collapsed across the bed. ''Whatever, babes. Knock yourself out."
We talked a bit about the whole Michael Jackson Memorial. She was in class and didn't see it. Our internet was busted due to all the streaming at work, and I caught bits of pieces of it on various computers in my cubicle area.
All was well.
Then, a few minutes later, I heard that familiar sound.
The sizzle of chicken frying.
Then there was that smell.
The smell of fresh chicken... frying.
(Yeah, that right there is for YOU, Chele. Be strong, you Oldgirl you. Man up, honey child!)
Kentucky was frying chicken in my GOOD "chicken-fryin'" skillet. That's a skillet I've had since 1991, when I was 21. It was one of the first items I bought for my first apartment.
Chicken was smelling GOOD!
Sizzling all up in my GOOD pan!
Man... Kentucky was frying chicken so hard that the house fire alarms started going OFF!
It was as if the fire alarms were hollering "LadyLee, that's some GOOD chicken right there!"
Anyway, I went back in my bedroom and flopped down on the bed.
Turned on CNN and caught some of the clips of the Memorial.
The scent of fried chicken danced in my nose...
I don't know how I was feeling. I think the look on Oscar-Tyrone's face says it best.
What does that look mean? Perturbed, dismayed, annoyed, bored?
I have no idea. I just know I felt the way he looked.
I didn't want any chicken. Was just a little annoyed with my day. That was the root of my angst.
The chicken smelled good. I taught Kentucky how to properly fry chicken a good year ago.
So I know it had to taste good.
Kentucky fried 4 pieces of chicken. She busted the rest of the package up into 4 quart size freezer bags, and threw them in the freezer.
I prepared a very nice salad for myself.
That's one of those salads where you snatch open the fridgerator door and just throw everything in a bowl.
Fresh spring lettuce, cucumbers, strawberrries, onions, portabella mushrooms, tomatoes, nuts, raisins, seeds...
Topped it off with a fresh tarragon lemon dressing.
(I got that recipe from my Vegetarian Times magazine, you see).
Very nice indeed.
I am SO proud of myself.
I didn't put the smack down on Kentucky for a piece of her chicken.
I did GOOD, ya'll.
But uh rah...
Kentucky don't need to make a habit of that.
I ain't THAT good.
Or am I?