I had a completely fabulous mother. She was a pretty good cook, except that she was always so busy with her politics, and with being consigliere to her large family, and with talking to my dad while he was on his second job shift, that she almost never cooked dinner without a phone lodged between her shoulder and her ear. This resulted in many culinary tragedies, and seasoning mistakes. Here are two examples.
One day she was making her amazing chicken soup, loaded with carrots, and turnips, and leeks, and dill, not to mention the largest soup chicken she could find. When it came time to add salt, she grabbed what she thought was the large red box of kosher salt, but it was the similar-sized box of Tide.
My mother was born and raised in Houston, which is the most “Southern” of Texas cities. Even her accent had the added rich drawl of her boarding school in Atlanta. That is why, when I think of my mother, I feel Southern. We had southern cooks and when we were not eating at the local Mexican café in Toluca Lake (California – not Mexico) memory dictates that we dined on chicken fried whatever! Chicken, of course, but also pork chops, steaks, fish, and shrimp – virtually everything (except our greens) would be chicken-fried.