Eat Mor Chikin

We do not usually enjoy food that stares back at us in America, but I have had to overcome this squeamish tendency to meet my daily caloric requirements here in Africa. Aside the rice, rice, and more rice that I have consumed, there are also the options of goat, pork, occasionally chicken, and fish aplenty. While I am no longer surprised when my teeth crunch down on an unexpected rib cage, it all has made me a bit nostalgic for American food, notably a restaurant chain that is dear to my heart—Chick-fil-A.

My own attachment to this restaurant began in the year 2000, and I have been faithful to her since my first day of work at the tender age of fifteen. The flexible hours, joyful abundance of waffle fries, and remarkably friendly co-workers all contributed to an excellent first job experience. I started at $5.25 an hour. Now I feel old.

For me, Chik-fil-A, has become a certain metaphor for home. There was no franchise near the seminary in Miami, and I am certainly now as far from the chain as I possibly could be. Now, whenever I taste those delicious, brown waters of sweet tea, or see that strangely huggable cow waving at me, I feel home. This journey of priestly formation has led me to many unfamiliar places and experiences that require me to struggle and grow. I’ve had to let go of people I love, places that I’m comfortable, and food that my body craves.

I have a coupon for one of their free chicken biscuits that I use as a bookmark. Some days it taunts me, laughing at me as if I will never be able to redeem it, as I try to convince my stomach that just maybe the white rice will have a different consistency today. More often, though, this coupon lifts my spirits. I remember the kind “mint lady” who would always coax me into having “just one more” mint. I remember all the heart-to-heart conversations I’ve had with good friends and mentors in those blue booths. I remember home.

And I will get that biscuit.

-Bob
written 06/13/11