Food Poem Fridays: Fried Chicken, You're Up

November  2, 2012

Every Friday, we’re mixing things up with a different kind of food writing. More specifically, food poetry to be read slowly, over your morning coffee. Today, fried chicken as a symbol. 

We've done a lot of poems around here where a certain food gets a poetic nod, gets a little royal, grows legs -- if only the metaphorical kind -- and stands proudly. 

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Today, fried chicken gets a little more than that, as does all food, for that matter: in this morning's poem, fried chicken, instead of just being delicious, acts as a gateway to interlace war, race, and food all within a single, four-stanza poem. It's good, too, but it's so much more. 

Take a minute. Read this, then read it again. Contemplate. 

Eating Fried Chicken by Linh Dinh 

Photos by Karen Mordechai

 

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Kenzi Wilbur

Written by: Kenzi Wilbur

I have a thing for most foods topped with a fried egg, a strange disdain for overly soupy tomato sauce, and I can never make it home without ripping off the end of a newly-bought baguette. I like spoons very much.

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