Crispy Chicken Tenders

August is here and Marcus goes back to school in two weeks for his senior year — his last year in this house as a full-time resident, the last year I will pack his lunch every morning, the last year I will hear his footsteps on the stairs and his music through the walls and his voice at the dinner table every single night. I am not counting the days. I am living the days. Each one. On purpose. With fried chicken.

The garden is at peak production and the kitchen is a canning factory. I put up twelve jars of tomato sauce this week from the garden tomatoes — blanched, peeled, cooked down with garlic and basil and onion and a little sugar, sealed in Mason jars that will sit in the pantry like rubies on a shelf. I canned six jars of bread-and-butter pickles. I froze bags of okra. I cut and blanched collard greens for the freezer. The work is physical and meditative and entirely without drama, which is exactly what I need this month — work that does not require thinking about the things I do not want to think about.

The church had its annual summer picnic at Kelly Ingram Park on Saturday. I made fried chicken — twelve pounds of it — because a church picnic without fried chicken is just a group of people eating outside, and that is not a picnic, that is a regret. The chicken was perfect: crispy, juicy, seasoned to the bone the way Mama taught me, every piece a sermon about patience and temperature and the willingness to stand at a stove in August because the people you feed are worth the sweat.

Marcus played football with the youth group boys. He is the oldest of the youth group now, the senior, the one the younger boys look up to, and he carries that role the way he carries everything — with grace and without swagger. He threw passes to twelve-year-olds and did not throw hard. He caught balls from eight-year-olds and celebrated every catch like it was the Super Bowl. He is kind. My boy is kind. And kindness at seventeen is not a given — it is a choice, and he chooses it daily, and I like to think the choosing comes from the table, from the kitchen, from a lifetime of being fed with intention.

Made homemade ice cream Sunday afternoon — vanilla bean, churned in the old ice cream maker that has been in the garage since CJ was in middle school. Marcus turned the crank because his arms are younger and stronger than mine, though I will not say so because I am forty-seven and still lifting cast iron skillets one-handed and I am not surrendering anything to age that I do not have to. The ice cream was rich and cold and tasted like summer in a bowl, and we ate it on the porch as the evening cooled and the fireflies came out and August hummed its last August hum before September changes the song.

That porch evening—the fireflies, Marcus turning that old crank, the easy quiet of a summer almost spent—had me thinking about the kind of cooking that brings people in from wherever they are and plants them somewhere together. Chicken tenders are not glamorous, but they are beloved in this house in the way that matters, the way that means CJ has been requesting them since he was small enough to need the pieces cut, and Marcus has never once turned them down. When the mood is grateful and the people around you are good, you cook the thing that makes them stay at the table a little longer. Here’s how I made them.

Prep Time: 20 minutes (plus 4–8 hours marinating) | Cook Time: 30 minutes | Total Time: 50 minutes active | Servings: 6–8

Ingredients

2 lbs chicken tenders (or boneless thighs cut into strips)
2 cups buttermilk
1 tablespoon hot sauce
2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 cup cornstarch
2 teaspoons kosher salt, plus more for the brine
1 1/2 teaspoons garlic powder
1 1/2 teaspoons onion powder
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 teaspoon black pepper
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
Vegetable oil or peanut oil, for frying (enough to fill pan 2–3 inches deep)

Instructions

Marinate the chicken. Whisk together buttermilk, hot sauce, and a generous pinch of salt in a large bowl. Add the chicken tenders, turn to coat, cover, and refrigerate for at least 4 hours or overnight. The longer the soak, the more tender the result.
Mix the dredge. In a wide, shallow dish, whisk together the flour, cornstarch, salt, garlic powder, onion powder, smoked paprika, black pepper, cayenne, and thyme. The cornstarch is the secret to the crunch that holds up even at a picnic.
Heat the oil. Pour oil into a heavy cast iron skillet or Dutch oven to a depth of 2 to 3 inches. Heat over medium-high until a thermometer reads 350°F. Do not rush this step — temperature is everything.
Dredge the chicken. Remove each piece from the buttermilk, letting the excess drip off, then press it firmly into the seasoned flour on all sides. Set aside on a wire rack for 5 minutes to let the coating set before frying.
Fry in batches. Working in small batches so as not to crowd the pan, fry the tenders for 4 to 5 minutes per side, turning once, until deep golden brown and cooked through (internal temp 165°F). Crowding drops the oil temperature and leads to soggy chicken, and soggy chicken is a regret.
Drain and rest. Transfer finished pieces to a clean wire rack set over a baking sheet. Season lightly with salt while still hot. Do not pile them — a rack keeps the crust crispy all the way around.
Hold for a crowd. To keep chicken warm for a picnic or large gathering, place the rack and sheet pan in a 250°F oven for up to 45 minutes. The crust holds beautifully.

Nutrition (per serving)

Crispy Chicken Tenders — The Fried Chicken That Feeds a Church and Keeps a Boy Close