Old Ed leaned back in his comfortable, humoured rocking chair.  Old is a weak adjective to describe Ed’s length of time on this planet.  On occasion he will mention the baby tyrannosaur he once raised. 

Interesting question you’re proposing. 

His tongue rotated his lower dentures as he thought. 

Probing into the scientific side of frying chickens.  

His head nodded knowingly. 

And one that demands an authoritative answer. 

According to Ed, he was an authority on any topic you dared to debate.  He mumbled some inarticulate mutter that vaguely sounded like cursing.   Tilting his cranial structure in a backward motion he stared long and hard at the sagging ceiling.   Nothing of monumental interest.   It was merely a fictitious aide in his seeming ability to think more deeply.  Two days passed like Russell his brother milking cows.  Painfully slow. 

Then as the agent of light commenced to shine upon our humble cabin on the third day, Ed moved.   Turning his squat head a little to the left he spat a wad of chewing tobacco beneath Findlay’s Oval.  Ed was about to speak.  Awed, I sat in hushed silence.  What else could I do?

  So you want to know what I think is in the fried chicken recipe of that Colonel from Kentucky? 

Obviously he was rephrasing my query.  Mild frustration storied it’s way onto my face. Two days and all he could do was reword my question.  I was about to vent, when Ed’s leather tongue beat me to the draw. 

First you gotta decide what chickens the Colonel  is using for his recipe.  With over a few hundred varieties you have to realize the possibilities are nigh unto endless. 

Ed made it seem like some mathematical equation as opposed to a simple lesson in cooking..  Thumbing suspenders that did nothing more than hold up his pants, his nose twitched as he continued his lecture. 

Now if it’s them there Rhode Island Reds then you’re fogging your horn and your hair will be twitching like a bunny.  Then there’s that new big bird called Lily of the Dale.  Which if you ask me it sounds more like Fred’s wife Agnes yodeling.  Now I’m to leaning toward the common farm fresh hen.  Not those hens that are raised in a red light district.

To which I silently wondered, what is a hen doing in a red light district, unless it is strutting it’s stuff. 

But rather, Ed spoke somewhat loudly.

I gather my minute momentary mind drift must have irked him, seeing I was not totally en-wrapped in his lecture. 

Which if it is, then I’m most certain that my explanation is the right one.  

Breathless, I sat up in my hard back Windsor chair.  Well, I stammered.  What is in the blooming recipe that’s so darn secret.

Ed gave me one of his, boy ain’t I dumb looks. 

Why it’s plainer than Belinda’s busty beacons.  It’s obvious what’s in the Kentucky Fried Chicken recipe.  It’s gotta be Chicken.