Blog No. 17 - Cluck Yeah, It’s My Birthday!
When I was a kid, we ate dinner every Sunday at noon at my Grandma and Grandpa’s house. They lived just two houses down the street, so it was a family affair of epic proportions. They had a large table that sat a lot of people, once the boards were added, and the best chairs that you could spin around on until you were dizzy and laughing uncontrollably.
With a birthday that usually fell on or very near Father’s day, we often celebrated my birthday on Father’s Day. My dad never complained about this and neither did my Grandpa. They had a favorite meal too, but that will have to be a whole separate blog post because it’s a story in itself. Anyway, when it was your birthday, you got to pick what Grandma would cook for dinner and I picked the same thing every single time.
Chicken and French Fries.
Now you might think I’m talking about fried chicken, but I am not. Grandma made chicken for me in an old-fashioned rotisserie chicken contraption long before you could walk into a grocery store or Costco and grab one hot off the shelf. (I cannot even fathom what she’d think about the ability to do that today.) It was always hot and juicy and I always got the leg.
The compliment to this chicken was Grandma’s Ore-Ida crinkle cut French fries. She cooked these fries in scalding hot oil, in a pot on the stove, in the middle of June without central air. (Did I mention she didn’t have a dishwasher either?)
Grandma would also make a dessert of your choice, but I don’t really remember that always being the same one. I remember everything from fruit cocktail cakes to Jello poke hole cakes, usually from recipes cut right out of the Milwaukee Journal. Eventually, I found my favorite cake, but that was when I was a little older and wiser. What I do vividly remember was that chicken and those crispy French fries. I can still smell the chicken cooking and that frying oil as I close my eyes and reminisce.
It’s a funny thing about birthdays. The older I get, my mind keeps telling me of how special those simple celebrations were. The fact that my grandma never complained about cooking batch after batch of those fries over a hot stove in order to have enough fries to feed all those people astounds me. She never questioned all the dishes that we’d wash and dry by hand, including all the piece parts of that stand-alone rotisserie oven which were crusty from baked on chicken grease. I imagine she likely baked the cake the day before as there was enough to do for a meal that was served at noon on the dot.
My family and I around Grandma and Grandpa’s table in 1977, in the kitchen that later became my kitchen
I can’t remember a single birthday meal out in a restaurant until I was an adult. Eating out was a special occasion for us, one not easily afforded and kind of a big deal. Even so, I would never have considered asking to go out for my birthday because nothing could have been more special than my whole family around that table in the middle of that steamy kitchen.
It’s no wonder that when we purchased Grandma and Grandpa’s home, I really struggled letting go of the old rotisserie. It was large and classic, but way more than my husband and I needed to feed the two of us. I struggled to donate it or even give it away because it was a source of both happiness and sadness since losing my grandparents. Eventually, a nephew adopted the appliance, giving me a reason to let it go.
Letting go of that rotisserie felt like closing a chapter, but the memories it represents remain vividly alive. Every time I smell roasted chicken or hear the crackle of oil, I’m transported back to that crowded table, those spinning chairs, and the unspoken love served alongside every meal. My grandparents may be gone, but the warmth of those Sundays, the joy of simple traditions, and the care poured into every birthday dinner are stitched into the fabric of who I am. In the end, it’s not just about the food—it’s about the people, the laughter, and the legacy of love that lives on in my heart.
Written on my 55th birthday, June 16th, 2025