Just when you think you know someone...

Over the past couple of months Abe and I have been bit by bit relocating to Canon City, CO, from our Park County, also CO, digs. The distance between our two homes is just 60 miles, but bear in mind Canon's elevation is 5,332 feet above sea level, whereas the ParkCo house sits slightly below cloud level at 9,000 feet. The more than 3,000 feet difference in elevation translates to a significant temperature/season difference as well. And, as you might guess, it also translates to a different way of eating. It's chili weather up there; it's sit-on-the-patio-and-sweat weather here. So I'm fixing summer meals as October crests on the calendar.

One of the meals I've fixed twice in the past months is fried chicken. I've spent an inordinate amount of time on it, too -- getting the spice blend just right and getting the coating extra crunchy. Hint: Potato chips. It's all about potato chips.
Even as I write this, I'm wishing I had leftovers. It's that good.

Qualifier: To me, it's that good. To my husband -- a man I've known for multiple decades, a man I could pick out of a crowd by the sound of his sneeze, a man I would die for even though the smell of his feet can blister paint... that man -- my chicken falls short.

Just when you think you know someone...

Still, he knows better than to fully explain it to me. But in a sore-thumb way, he passes on second helpings.

OK. Lest you think I am completely unhappy by this situation, let me assure you I am not. First, the obvious: More for me. And secondly, this snub keeps me on my culinary toes.

If Abe doesn't like it, there is that remote possibility someone else might not like my chicken. And if that someone is a child or grandchild sharing my DNA, someday there could be a book on shelves everywhere.

Would it be "Son of My Mom Invented BAD Food" or "My Mom Invented REALLY BAD Food."