Few there are who don’t enjoy a good chicken dinner. That being said, it didn’t used to be as simple as in our day.

It’s easy now. We can even buy a chicken all cut up. In my early years they were only sold whole, so I used to teach other women how to cut them into at least eight pieces. It was actually the most popular class at a homemaking fair I participated in back in the early 1980s.

Back in the olden days, as my kids would say, one had to start early to plan a chicken dinner. First step was to select the bird and catch it. Most country folks had them running around the yard pecking for food anyway. Personally, I looked for an easy target.

My first experience was when I was about four years old. Back in the holler Mom made me accompany her as she caught one. That creates quite an image, with her in her cotton dress and apron scrambling among the squawking fowl.

She warned me to stand back as she grabbed the unlucky hen by the head, raised it high over her head and began swinging it around at a dizzyingly increasing rate of speed until she broke its neck.

My part in this was thrust upon me when she quickly threw the lively bird under an inverted galvanized tub. My job was to sit on the tub until it finally quit flopping—which seemed like an eternity. Honestly, my little fingers gripped the rib of the base of the tub until my knuckles were blue trying to hang on until the end of the ride. Perhaps that is the Appalachian version of an amusement ride.

Meanwhile she had a big kettle in the yard filled with boiling water. Once the chicken was lifeless, she grabbed it by the head and began bobbing it up and down in the hot water. This process scalded the skin just enough to make releasing the feathers a bit easier. It also created an unforgettable aroma, similar to a wet dog.

Once plucked, she worked to remove the remaining pin feathers. She then made the same statement. “I know who will eat the most pin feathers!” “Who?” I enquired. “The one who eats the most chicken,” she laughed.

The next step was to remove the entrails. It was my least favorite part to observe. Gross. She carefully and expertly removed the gizzard, liver and heart, setting them aside. She chopped off the head and feet, but I can no longer remember what happened to them.

She proceeded to cut the bird into pieces as she needed them for the particular recipe she had in mind.

She thoroughly washed the meat and soaked it in salt water for a time. This was usually done on the day it was served, because at that time we had no refrigeration.

Mom made the best chicken and dumplings I’ve ever put in my mouth. It was a family favorite, but of course, most of those chickens got fried to a golden brown after seasoning and dredging them in a mixture of flour and cornmeal.

Nothing was wasted. The back, neck and ribs were fried and picked clean at the dinner table. Daddy, who grew up with six brothers, used to joke that if there was one piece of chicken left on the platter and the lights went out, there would be eight forks in the back of the hand of the one who grabbed the chicken first.

Road trips were a feast. Mom was always up early frying chicken. We splurged on a loaf of “light bread” from the store, and that was lunch on the side of the road. If we had an ear of pickled corn that was a special treat.

It is my sincere hope that the preachers who were always so eager to come for Sunday dinner appreciated all the steps that went into making that feast. Sundays were special, and Saturdays were spent cooking up all sorts of tasty sides and desserts from dressing, green beans, hulled peas, mashed potatoes, biscuits, corn on the cob, shucky beans, “kilt” lettuce and slaw to coconut or chocolate cakes, pies and the ever popular banana pudding topped with baked meringue. Other bowls and jars of delectables laden the tables.

Children’s plates were fixed first, and we were sent to eat wherever we could find a spot to sit. The men surrounded the table and heartily ate, and finally the women ate what was left.

There was always an abundance of food after what seemed like the entire congregation feasted.

Today, we can stop and pick up a bucket of golden fried chicken; however, just like the expression “easy as pie,” serving fried chicken required more than met the eye.

— Hill describes herself as a cook and cookbook author, jack of all trades and master of none, a Christian wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother.