My trusty Wagner cast-iron, perfect for frying chicken. If only I would. Photo by Mark A. Brown
I like my chicken, like myself, with the bones intact. Bones are evidence of life, and it’s life, after all, that flavors a living thing. Meat hanging to bones is evidence of some plan, a design rendered by something beyond man to give him nature and character. When I chew against a leg, thigh or breast bone to extract the last of the meat, I push into the bone confident that it will push back. Bones give my teeth reason for being, gnawing, pressing reasons, and without them—bones, I mean—who knows how long before my teeth fall out of my head from all the boneless mush I am left to chew.