White Barbecue Chicken

Amber came home from UK this weekend. She does that every few weeks — drives the hour from Lexington's campus to our house on the south side, dumps a bag of laundry on the floor, eats everything in the refrigerator, and talks nonstop for forty-eight hours about things I pretend to understand. This weekend it was microbiology. She's taking microbiology as a prerequisite for the nursing program and she is either fascinated or horrified by bacteria, possibly both. She told me about something called MRSA while I was trying to eat a sandwich and I had to put the sandwich down.

I love that girl more than I know how to say. All three of my kids, I love them, but Amber — Amber is doing something none of us ever did. She's the first Hensley to go to college. She's going to be a nurse. She's going to help people with a degree and a license instead of with a shovel and her back. Every time she calls and talks about her classes, I hear the sound of a family climbing up, one generation at a time, and I think maybe all those years in the mines and on the construction sites were worth it, because they bought her this.

I made fried chicken for Amber's visit because that's what you do when your daughter comes home — you make the best thing you know how to make. Betty's fried chicken. The recipe that people drove from three counties away to eat at church suppers. The recipe that made Betty Hensley famous in Harlan County, which is the only kind of fame worth having.

Here's what Betty taught me: you start with a whole chicken, cut into pieces. You soak it in buttermilk for at least two hours, overnight is better. The buttermilk tenderizes the meat and gives it a tang that you can't get any other way. Then you dredge it in seasoned flour — two cups flour, a tablespoon of salt, a teaspoon of black pepper, a half teaspoon of cayenne if you like heat (Betty didn't use cayenne; I do, because I'm a rebel). You shake off the excess and you fry it in a cast iron skillet with an inch and a half of Crisco — vegetable shortening, not oil, and definitely not that fancy avocado oil that costs fourteen dollars and makes everything taste like a yoga class.

The oil needs to be at 325 degrees. Not 350, which is what most recipes say. 325. Betty was specific about this. At 350, the outside browns too fast and the inside stays raw. At 325, the chicken cooks all the way through by the time the crust is perfectly golden. Dark meat goes in first because it takes longer. You don't crowd the pan. You turn it once, only once, about halfway through. Total cook time is about eighteen to twenty minutes for thighs and legs, twelve to fifteen for breasts. You drain it on a paper bag — not paper towels, a paper bag, because the bag absorbs grease without making the crust soggy.

I made it Saturday afternoon. The house smelled like a church supper. Amber ate a thigh and a breast and made sounds that I will describe as appreciative. Clay ate four pieces because Clay eats like he's training for a competitive eating contest, which he basically is, given that he's growing about an inch a month. Connie ate one piece and said "That'll do," which from Connie is a James Beard Award. Travis came by — I think he smelled it from his apartment across town, like a cartoon character following a scent trail — and ate two pieces standing up at the counter.

For a minute, all five of us were in the kitchen at the same time, eating fried chicken, and it felt like the kitchen in Evarts when we were kids, all eight of us crammed into a room the size of a closet, elbows bumping, everybody reaching for the last piece. That's what food does. It makes a room feel like home, even when home is somewhere else entirely.

Betty’s cast iron fried chicken will always be the crown jewel of the Hensley kitchen — the recipe that fills the house with that churchsupper smell and pulls everybody in off the street, Travis included. But on the nights when the whole family is coming and you want that same Southern soul without standing over a skillet of hot Crisco for an hour, this white barbecue chicken is the answer. That tangy, creamy sauce is pure Kentucky-and-points-south, and when you put a platter of it on the table, people still make those appreciative sounds Amber made — the ones that tell you the food did exactly what food is supposed to do.

Prep Time: 15 min (plus 1 hr marinating) | Cook Time: 40 min | Total Time: 55 min (plus marinating) | Servings: 6

Ingredients

3 1/2 lbs bone-in, skin-on chicken pieces (thighs, legs, and breasts)
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
For the White Barbecue Sauce:
1 cup mayonnaise
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon prepared horseradish
1 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 teaspoon sugar

Instructions

Make the sauce. Whisk together mayonnaise, apple cider vinegar, lemon juice, horseradish, black pepper, garlic powder, onion powder, salt, cayenne, and sugar in a medium bowl until smooth and fully combined. Taste and adjust seasoning. Set aside half the sauce for serving.
Marinate the chicken. Pat chicken pieces dry and season all over with salt and pepper. Place in a large zip-lock bag or baking dish and coat thoroughly with the remaining half of the sauce. Seal or cover and refrigerate for at least 1 hour, or up to overnight for best flavor.
Prepare your heat. Preheat a grill to medium heat (about 350–375°F) and oil the grates, or preheat your oven to 400°F and set a wire rack over a foil-lined baking sheet. If baking, brush the rack with vegetable oil.
Cook the chicken. Grill method: Place chicken skin-side down over indirect heat. Cover and cook 20 minutes, then flip and cook another 18–20 minutes until a thermometer inserted in the thickest part reads 165°F. Oven method: Arrange marinated chicken skin-side up on the prepared rack and roast 38–42 minutes until skin is golden and internal temperature reaches 165°F.
Rest and serve. Transfer chicken to a platter and let it rest 5 minutes. Serve with the reserved white barbecue sauce on the side for dipping or drizzling.

Nutrition (per serving)

White Barbecue Chicken — When the South Shows Up at Your Table