Reflections from the Swamp
Dear Reader
The Millstone has often featured great recipes in its articles for readers. I will admit that my bride is a better cook than I am, but I dream of breaking the mould and sending in a recipe that will delight the known world. The following story is a direct result of dreaming of fame and fortune as a culinary contributor to the Millstone. Many families have favourite recipes that are shared with family and friends at Christmas or for birthdays. Some of these are family secrets. If, in the future, I submit a chicken recipe that tastes remarkably familiar, you may be sharing a family secret.
Secret Recipes
Delmer, a retired gardener from the quiet swamplands of Corkery, Ontario, was a man who measured his life not in years, but in compost. His prized possession was a compost bin made from an old whiskey barrel, a gift from his late wife, Gloria, who always said his love of dirt was his most incredible charm. Gloria, bless her heart, had no idea the secrets that very dirt held.
One Tuesday, while turning his meticulously layered pile of organic refuse, his shovel struck something solid. He dug it out, wiping away the rich Ottawa Valley soil to reveal an ancient, grease-stained tin box that clearly predated the era of plastic. It had no branding, just a faded, stylized “S” on the lid.
Inside, nestled among petrified onion skins and a 1972 receipt for a bag of topsoil, was a yellowed index card. Written in a spidery hand, in what looked suspiciously like a mix of ballpoint ink and gravy, was a list: 11 Herbs & Spices: 2 tsp salt, 1 tsp pepper, 1 tsp paprika… Delmer squinted. Was that dried thyme?
He chuckled, thinking it a joke. Who would bury a recipe? He later learned, much to his shock, that this was no joke, but the physical manifestation of high-stakes Cold War espionage. The story, as he pieced it together from a cryptic note also in the tin, involved his late cousin, Kip, a man whose quiet life in Kentucky belied his role as the sole, trusted keeper of Colonel Sanders’ secret 11-herb-and-spice formula.
The incident occurred during the legendary 1972 Canada/Russia hockey series. While the world watched Paul Henderson score the winning goal, the real action was happening off the ice. The KGB was using the series as cover to spy on the West. Intelligence agencies—the RCMP, the CIA, and the KGB—were all playing a geopolitical game, but the only secret anyone truly cared about was the KFC formula. The Russian, American, and Canadian spy networks had many secrets. The KFC had only one secret: the world’s most successful secret chicken recipe. The Russians, who were handily winning the series, agreed to throw the final game in exchange for the coveted recipe. The Russians were so good at concealing their scheme that, to this day, there is no concrete evidence that they “threw the game” during the final minutes.
Kip, the unassuming keeper, was dispatched to Moscow with the formula. But patriotic duty (and a deep, abiding loyalty to Canadian hockey) intervened. Just as the final buzzer sounded, Kip slipped out of the arena and caught the first flight back to Canada. He raced to the quietest, most secure place he knew: Delmer’s garden in Corkery, where he buried the recipe in the compost pile.
Delmer, now aware of this extraordinary backstory, couldn’t resist a test. He marched home, pulled out his ancient spice rack, and began to mix. He didn’t have a pressure fryer, or a deep fryer, or even a decent non-stick pan. He had Gloria’s old cast-iron skillet, seasoned so well it was almost sentient. He dredged some chicken pieces he’d bought on sale at the Carp Farmers’ Market, fired up the stove, and began to fry.
The aroma that wafted through his little bungalow was transformative. It was the smell of collective memory, of Friday nights, of high-stakes espionage, born again in a quiet Corkery kitchen. Delmer tasted a drumstick. It was perfect. A tear rolled down his cheek, tasting vaguely of salt and maybe a hint of MSG, which he was sure Gloria would have approved of.
He considered his options. He could open “Delmer’s Fried Chicken: Secretly Safe from Russian Influences,” and host the most legendary potlucks in the history of the Corkery Community Centre.
He looked at the tin box, then at the index card, then at his compost bin. The secret belonged to the earth, protected from Cold War adversaries. With a final, satisfied crunch of chicken skin, Delmer carefully placed the tin box and the recipe card back inside the whiskey barrel compost bin. He covered it with a healthy layer of grass clippings and coffee grounds, patted the pile, and returned to his afternoon newspaper. The world’s greatest culinary secret was safe, decomposing in the back garden of a retired man in Corkery, right where Kip and Gloria would have wanted it. Some secrets are just too good to share—but not the chicken itself. He had leftovers for days.
Unknown to Delmer, the betrayed Russians did make attempts to find the KFC recipe, but to no avail. While visiting Quebec, they found a culinary delight almost as famous as the KFC recipe. It was made of French fries covered in melted cheese and gravy. Years later, they named the popular dish after their leader, who needed to boost his popularity at home. Putin remains the most popular fast food in Russia since KFC pulled out after the start of the war.
