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Published: August 15th 2009
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As I headed south out of Lexington, Kentucky on the broad swatch of concrete that is Interstate 75, I couldn't help but remember traveling this same way so many times in my childhood. Back then the family was always heading south to Florida to visit Grandma and Grandpa. I remember the old Interstate tuckering out in south central Kentucky, dumping us onto a narrow and twisting even older US Highway, 25W, down around Jellico, Tennessee. Well, nowadays that Interstate stretches all the way to Florida. And its wider and faster than ever.
Nonetheless, as I headed further south, a taste of those old days was still to be had. On the radio. As the diverse stations of Lexington faded out to scratchy echoes and were replaced by the flowing melodic pleas of Contemporary Christian stations. Then, a little past Berea, as the old hoe-down hall at Renfro Valley passed by, even the Contemporary Christian stations began to fade. And were replaced by what I'd call Old Timey Gospel. Like bluegrass, the twang of the tone of the voices and the instruments whined like the wind down in the hollow.
It seemed that as the miles rolled by, the years
rolled back.
When I was young and we made this trip I so strongly remember my curiosity about what could be up every dirt track and down every meandering valley road that we intersected. But our family trips were often trips of purpose. The goal was visiting Grandma and Grandpa.
Nowadays, I'm my master. And my trips are often for the sake of the journey, the surprises along the way. Arrival is constant, not something accomplished at the end of trip. And so I was free on this trip to take those roads that had always piqued my curiosity.
And one of those roads was the road to Corbin, Kentucky. In fact you might even say that I was on a pilgrimage of sorts. Because in Corbin is . . . . . wait, I get ahead of myself.
The tires are humming, the road is sliding gently and smoothly flowing through the hills. Then I slam on my brakes. Because there on the roof of the distant barn is the first sign of the goal of this pilgrimage. The roof is red. The three letters are huge, powerful and white. The say KFC!
Yes,
the venerable Colonel came to Corbin in 1932 at age 42, opened his Sanders Cafe and Motor Lodge and Service Station. And it was here that he perfected that internationally famed recipe!
I exit the raging Interstate and cruise across 25E to 25W, the old road that passes right through Corbin. Incongruously I pass by a billboard advertising divorces for only $595 as the radio twangs its Gospel heart out. Then, suddenly, there it is, the tall roofs of the original Sanders Cafe. With the neon sign blazing away. The flags of the US of A, the Commonwealth of Kentucky and KFC flutter in the muggy summer air. And the parking lot is chock full of license plates from all over the country. If I was on my Bajaj Pulsar with its Union of India (not Indiana) plates I could have made it an international parking lot. Instead Mom's Kentucky plates will be my signature!
Inside, the huge red welcome mat boldly says KFC! I tour the well preserved original cafe, its kitchen, the front counter with the massive cash register. I reverently behold the model of the original Sander's empire - the Cafe, Motor Lodge and Service
Station. I move on to display cases stocked with KFC paraphernalia - the 'bucket of matches', the Colonel's favorite music played by his select mandolin band, a poster from his campaign for to be a Senator in the Kentucky Commonwealth's Senate. Its absolutely magnificent!
Then I spy the stately Colonel - or at least a statue of him - sitting on a bench, arm outstretched welcoming me into the comfort of passing some time together on that bench. At first I can hardly say a word - its frightening to be in the presence of such a persona - or at least a statue of such a persona. But finally I find my voice and launch into conversation. I find him to be a bit of a minimalist when it comes to talking - stone cold silent! Maybe he's deaf. Or at least this statue of him is deaf.
In 1956, at age 66, as the new interstate 75 began to threaten the prosperity of the businesses along the old US highway, the Colonel began to tour the US, selling his recipe, his spices and eventually franchises in what was to become Kentucky Fried Chicken and then just
plain old KFC. Me, I remember. Growing up, Sunday night was our night as a family to give Mom a break and carry some food home from a restaurant. And usually that restaurant was Carter's. In the Kennedy Heights neighborhood of Cincinnati, Ohio where I grew up. You see, they had the local franchise for the Kentucky Fried Chicken recipe. Oh, what a treat it was!
And speaking of treats, its time for mine! I approach the counter. Weigh the vegetarian options and decide its a day to forego vegetarianism! I place my order, the young lady takes my money then scurries busily about until she gives me my tray. With my meal. Original recipe of course. And dark meat only. The only way!
And . . . . . . it is the tastiest and juiciest KFC of my life!
I mean I ate KFC in St. Petersburg, Russia just two weeks earlier. And the Bandra KFC back in Mumbai is one of the coolest places to hang with the best of people. But when it comes to flavor, there truly is something about eating where that secret recipe breathed its first breath! I am renewed
and rejuvenated. The pilgrimage, a success!
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Wendy Niccoli
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YUM!
Yummy - one of our favorites, even if it gives us a tummy ache! All they need now are fried pickles, and I'd be in heaven! :)