Grandma died nearly two decades ago, but vivid memories of her magic cooking often come back to me. I use the word magic because Grandma was good at turning ordinary ingredients into delicious food.

When I was a little child, life was hard in the country and eating meat was nothing but a luxury. Although every household kept poultry, they raise them to sell eggs.  Seldom would they kill them for meat, except when they died. One morning, grandma found a hen dead after she got up to feed them. She was sad, murmuring to herself what a pity that the hen just began to lay eggs. My brothers and sisters and I were all very happy that we finally had chicken to eat. We followed Grandma closely as if the dead hen could fly away. Grandma had a busy morning, boiling water, plucking out feathers, cleaning and chopping chicken. All having been done, she began to cook. We would stand around the kitchen range, neck craned and mouth watering. When the chicken was eventually done, a problem arose. Who should have chicken legs? The quarrel was quickly settled because no one would waste time arguing.  As the youngest, I got the chicken legs. We all ate with great relish, enjoying every bite. Grandma never joined in. She just watched us affectionately and wiped her hands on her apron.

When I feed chicken to my two-year-old son, he would either avoid it or simply spit it out.  I know he will never find as much fun eating chicken as I did in my childhood.