I’d like to think that we have a thing, fried chicken and me – a true food for the soul.
That golden brown skin which has come to match the deep fried color of my own with the same soft, tender whiteness on the inside.
Heavenly juices that run from one creature’s flesh to the insides of another in order to feed the memory besought, oily cravings of an esurient sojourner.
Surprised at the almost indistinguishable taste.
You see, I had come to believe that I was American only to find myself to be very much a Thai concept as well. The singular being that I am. Every bit the same as I once was.
Thirty six hours or so away by plane.
Found around shopping malls and in the deli section of grocery stores. Here, on street corner markets and within the air-conditioned walls of giant Big C’s and Tesco Lotuses. KFC more a part of the everyday lexicon than my own ABC origins.
Set adrift on out to sea by a tide of lookalike faces.
When who I am or where I come from seems to be lost, it is always nice to find something familiar to sink my teeth into … even if it does come with rice.