We Southern Baptists had an expression growing up which was: “You cannot be a deacon if your waist is less than 38 inches.”
The idea is that nobody can trust a skinny deacon who doesn’t understand the finer points of fried chicken, which is the basis for fundamentalist religion.
We also had a cute expression in our church that went: “If you dance at a wedding reception you will rot in hell.”
Ha ha! We Baptists sure were a fun group. This is why many of us still see therapists on a weekly basis.
But our deacons really did have large waists. One of my childhood deacons was a big man named Brother Willie. Willie sold insurance, hunted deer, and did not go to wedding receptions unless they had fried chicken. He was a chicken fanatic.
Willie was always first in line at potlucks. He would cut in front of everyone, including kids, elderly people, and brittle diabetics. Without the slightest shred of humor, he’d say, “Excuse me, ma’am, official chicken gizzard
inspector.”
At first, most people thought he was joking. But you should have seen the way Deacon Willie ate gizzards. It was anything but comedy. It was more like a steamy romance.
But I’m getting off track here. Ever since my wife and I have been self-quarantining due to the COVID-19 outbreak, my wife has been cooking a lot. And I mean all day. There is not a moment when she is not flouring counters or warming the butter by placing the butter dish on the clothes dryer.
She’s been cooking so much that our walls are covered in a film of pure grease. If you trace your finger along our ceiling you’ll find a centimeter of peanut oil and atomized chicken sludge.
We have been eating tons of fried chicken. Not only because my wife and I were both raised Baptist, but because we have been stuck…