Three-day weekend, in the books. I might start one of those online petitions to make every weekend three days. Not sure any of those petitions has ever resulted in a single thing being changed, but maybe mine will be the first. I have to think it would be well received by the majority of the population, especially out here. Just a guess. Anyway, pipe dreams aside, that wasn’t a bad weekend. We’re in a nice stretch of 60-degree weather, which is certainly welcome. I took advantage of it to wash a few of the vehicles, rearrange the storage shed a bit, and I broke out the bicycle for a few rides. I haven’t ridden either of my bicycles since we moved to this house, well over a year ago. And, er, it shows. In order to counteract any possible health benefits of this resumed exercise regime, we also went out to eat on Thursday, in our continuing search for decent fried chicken. We’ve lived out here 8-some-odd years now and haven’t had a plate of fried chicken since. Well, we’ve made it at home a few times, but the mess generally discourages that menu. We have tried several restaurants as part of this arduous culinary quest, but all have fallen (far) short. Probably the most memorable failure was a trip clear down to Sacramento to a place loudly proclaiming, “The Best Fried Chicken in Sacramento.” I cannot lie, I was excited. Expectations were high. Too high, perhaps. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and when we pulled up to the location it was clear it was sort of a fast-food type of place, not a sit-down restaurant. OK, they’ve got a Go Chicken Go kind of thing going on, no problems there. Sign me up for a two piece dark and some gizzards, extra sauce. Only problem was, I couldn’t find the two piece combo meal on the menu, or the gizzards for that matter. No matter how long I stared, all I could find was boneless chicken strips. So, I just kept staring, patiently waiting for the kiddy menu to flip over to the real one. Alas, it was not to be. All they served was chicken strips. The best fried chicken, indeed. I wasn’t expecting to happen upon the west coast equivalent of Strouds, but chicken strips?!?!?! I died a little bit inside that day. Heck, I could have saved a few gallons of gas and just got a McNugget meal up the hill. I’m not even sure how they were, because I left without ordering, quietly sobbing, unable to contain my grief.

Anyway, I never gave up, resolving to search even harder. And search I have, always with similar results. Then, on Thursday we ended up at a rather remote hole-in-the-wall, Sportsmans Hall. I had researched the menu thoroughly, and confidence was high that we might be on to something. Rest assured, I had a few plan B’s selected in case everything went bad. A lengthy, detailed interview of the unlucky waitress who drew our table confirmed that yes, they did indeed serve actual fried chicken! Eureka! I was further encouraged that she gave me a confused stare under questioning, like “what the heck else would it be?” Look lady, you ever been outside this place? It’s a fried-chicken desert out there. I excitedly ordered the chicken plate, laughing hysterically when she jokingly asked, “would you like the mashed potatoes with that?” (Uh, that WAS a joke, right? Seemed to bring on more confused stares. That’s OK.) Then, I waited. And waited, and waited. I took this as yet another positive sign, as no acceptable fried chicken comes out quickly. After a good 30-plus minutes, my patience was rewarded with a fine looking plate of genuine fried chicken! Lots and lots of fried chicken, as a matter of fact. A full half a bird, and a somewhat large bird at that. Success! I anxiously dove into the huge plate, and it tasted as good as it looked. The long quest is over, we’ve found a spot for that occasional fried chicken fix. We’ll be back, I’m sure, probably sooner than later.

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