Fried Chicken and Romance

I can still feel the warmth on my hands from holding the red & white tubs of mashed potatoes and fried chicken. We would eat from Kentucky Fried Chicken rather frequently when we were kids. I never really understood who the man with the mustache was, but he seemed more endearing to me than an alarmingly red-headed clown. My favorite item were the mashed potatoes, and in our family of 8, there were rarely chances to have seconds so your first helping had to be big.

As time passed, KFC became food we would buy only after one of the 8 of us had dental work done. Those with intact teeth would eat the chicken, the others would slurp potatoes.

Then came the day when we were no longer eating any fast-food. I suppose we became more organic. I still remember the transition because the Schwann food truck no longer brought us corn-dogs on a stick, the only time I would eat at McDonalds was when my Papa T would take us out, and Pringles were something Mom would get for our lunch on the first day of school.

My last memory of KFC was hearing it as the location where someone began having chest pain and eventually died from some undiagnosed cardiac issue. At least, I think that’s how it went.

I was walking the busy streets of Santo Domingo, capital of the Dominican Republic, when KFC entered my life again. Our trek there was longer than anticipated and since I was trying to stay hydrated, I needed a bathroom ASAP.

“Encontramos un baño ahora o voy a orinar en uno de los vasos ahí tirao’ en la calle,” I threatened while gesturing to one of the many littered cups that decorate the street.

“Oye bebe, tranquila,” he said with a slight edge of worry in his voice, as if he was afraid I might actually go through with what I said and pee in a cup. My gait was altered due to the discomfort of a full bladder, but when my eyes took hold of the friendly man with a mustache, representative of all things fried and those fluffy, thick mashed potatoes, I straightened right up and began walking with purpose towards the promised land.

“Pregúntale si tienen baño,” I whispered sharply as we approached the entrance. The employee must be able to identify who is walking into the establishment with hunger and who is walking in with urgency; they replied with a laconic, “Upstairs to the left,” and that is exactly where I went. While I relieved myself, Peter ordered food since we were hungry too. A few minutes later I sat down in front of a tray filled with KFC, Peter sitting across from me: I really couldn’t be happier. 

Since it had been so long, it was hard to remember if it tasted anything similar to American KFC, but it was good. The taste I really savored though was that of looking straight into my darling’s face. Long after the chicken was gone, we sat there and talked. 

Crazy how you can find romance in the weirdest places. 

So often we are side by side, behind one another, or simply not positioned so that our faces are exactly in line. Or if we are across from each other, there may be a phone or a book or a homework assignment in between us. This time there were only chicken bones and an empty cup of Coca-Cola which I kept slurping on even though only ice remained. 

It was like meeting for the first time.

I wonder how many times we miss out on each other because we don’t look up.