A southern-fried welcome.

I remember my summers in North Carolina like they were yesterday. When I was a kid, my family always had our weekend ritual. I would help my ma wash clothes in the morning. We'd hang them on the line in the backyard for the humid, summer air to dry them before bedtime. I remember the way my bed linens smelled and felt against my skin... like cucumber, sun- lit clouds .

My sheets were Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

My dad would cut grass every Saturday afternoon and I followed closely behind him with my Fisher Price Bubble Lawn Mower in an attempt to earn my keep.

Girl in above image is not me.

Ma always made my favorite meal as a reward for winning weekly spelling bees: fried chicken, pinto beans with hamhocks, and biscuits. The smell of the fried goodness is a scent that brings me back to the days when things were a little more simple. I strive to attain the happiness that I possessed in my earlier days. I also strive to find the chicken that brings me closer to the feeling I felt when I was snaggletooth, in my ma's lap, with a death grip on a drumstick.

Grease stained fingers.

This will be a detailed account of my travels in search of the perfect fried chicken. I will attempt to scour my current city of Los Angeles and, god willing, many others around the country to find the chicken holy grail. By the end of this journey, I will no doubt begin to sprout feathers and lay eggs of some sort.

Where in the world is that CHICKEN?! Carmen, do you know?

In the meantime, I will also be giving you a little peek into my nutty, whirl- wind of an existence that is Bibby.

I encourage you all to find the things that make you happy in life... they make those darker days a little more tolerable. (Get it? Darker... like dark meat? Ah, forget it.)

All my love,
Bibby.