Don Rasmussen's Bad Manners

My First Wife is a pretty Southern Gal from the get-go. She fries chicken better than anyone else in this big country of ours. That was certainly true back when we lived in Vancouver, Washington. People came from far and wide for a drumstick or a big piece of chicken breast. It was good! It’s always fun to watch guests in our home light up when they take their first bite of her fried chicken.

We lived in Vancouver from 1975 to 1982, although there was a brief tromp to Kansas to chase some wild gooses. We didn’t care for Kansas then and decided the only antidote to the ache in our hearts was a return trip to the Northwest. On the first Sunday morning back we bee-lined it to the church we left behind.

When we walked in the door, there were big, warm hugs all around. Several church members, the pastor, even teen-agers welcomed us back home. This took a good fifteen minutes of greetings, hugging, crying, chatting, getting reacquainted.

And all along, in the background, stood the new assistant pastor, Don Rasmussen and his wife Cheryl. Finally, they greeted us warmly and that was that. Except that on the way home, our oldest daughter said, “I like Kim. She’s nice.”

“Kim who?” we asked.

“That new preacher’s girl.”

That our daughter and Kim looked like twins did not go unnoticed by either children or adults. The two girls instantly became fast friends and their friendship was the first cord that bound our families together forever.

Another cord is a fried chicken dinner. And true to form, Don, Cheryl and all their kids lit up with their first bite of Gloria’s golden fried chicken. “Oh, yes!” sang Cheryl. “This is southern-fried chicken!” Memories are made around the table, aren’t they?

There came a day when Don came to our house to help me with a project. I forgot why. Car repair? Lawn work? Painting? Who knows? Who cares? To get him to come over and help, we promised him some of Gloria’s chicken for lunch. He was there early.

At lunch time we devoured the fried chicken as fast as we could until there was just one piece left. A wing. And the wing sat there on the platter and sat there on the platter and just sat there on the platter. Don and I both eyed that delicious piece of chicken. We were in downtown Temptation City.

Now, when it comes to My First Wife's fried chicken, I'm not all that nice. No, I was not about to offer that last chunk of great chicken to Don. Oh, no. It would make a good midnight snack or fit into my lunch box on Monday. So, drawing upon my great command of the English language, I politely said nothing.

But Don Rasmussen has bad manners. After ten minutes of conversation and some more iced tea, he looked at me and said, “Well, I know you're just being polite and not taking the last piece in front of company.” He leaned across the table like he was right at home and stabbed his fork into my piece of fried chicken. “So I’ll just go ahead and take it myself...since I’m company.”

And he ate it right in front of me!

Funny, Don’s bad manners that day is another cord that holds our families together forever. He and Cheryl have made themselves at home more than once at our house. I wouldn't trade Don's bad manners for anything. He's quite a fine friend—and when he's here we always get some of My First Wife’s fried chicken!

You can find her recipe in Idgie’s new Southern magazine.