“Dad burnit, woman, fried chicken is supposed to be greasy! Aaah! What are you doing! Stop that!” “It’s just paprika and orégano!” “No, hon, no! This isn’t Italian chicken, it’s Dixie chicken! The only thing you put on it is salt and pepper!” Rucker grabbed the herb jars from her and put them back in her kitchen cabinet, then sighed with grand relief. He dumped a large white chunk of lard into the already greasy skillet and nodded happily. Dinah stomped one foot in amused protest. “Do you want y...our arteries to look like the inside of a deep fat fryer?” “My grandpa Elmo ate fried chicken almost every day of his life, and he lived to be a hundred!” “Ouch!” Dinah jerked her hand away as grease splattered from the huge skillet. She looked at Rucker indignantly as she rubbed a burn on her wrist. “I want combat pay,” she said. He wiped his hands on the towel tucked in the band of his gray jogging sweats. “Ooooh, poor darlin’,” he crooned, taking her wrist in one big hand.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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