Good news — fried chicken is back.

Actually, it never went anywhere at my house; it just made itself a bit scarcer than in the past (a bit too scarce, according to many of us).

But it's spring, and tradition has it that we eat more fried chicken in the spring, when it's time to cull the backyard chicken house to make room for the new arrivals. Plus, if you happened to notice the cover of the February issue of Bon Appetit magazine featuring a most delicious-looking fried chicken drumstick, you must realize that it's not just a way to cook chicken, it's a work of art, a cultural heritage, a national treasure.

How come we Southern folks are nuts about fried chicken? We tell stories about great platters full of it on our grandmother's Sunday dinner table. We write songs and poems about it, wean our babies on it, pack it up in shoe boxes when we take long trips, ask for it as our birthday dinners, beg our mamas to fix it when we come home for a weekend from college.

It all started with the Scots who settled in the southern regions, they say. These immigrants often fried their chicken in a kettle of lard rather than baking or roasting it the way their English neighbors did. Considering how hot it is in the summertime in the South, frying a chicken quickly was much more appealing than heating up the woodstove or beehive oven for hours to roast it. Besides, ovens were rare in the early days, and most cooking was done over an open fire.

Chickens were inexpensive and easy to care for, well-suited to a little piece of the backyard. They were one of the few animals that slaves were allowed to raise on their own and that poor whites could afford.

But the African heritage perfected fried chicken, the way we all like it. Black cooks added a few seasonings — paprika, red pepper, black pepper — to the flour they dredged the bird in and lowered the pieces into hot fat (lard, of course) to sizzle and brown.

We still cook chicken the same way as they used to, in spite of nearly 40 million hits for it on the Internet. True sons and daughters of Dixie know better than to fix something that isn't broken, so we don't go doing silly things like adding ginger or saffron to our fried chicken, or messing around with soaking it overnight in fancy wine marinades.

We do know that there are certain inviolate rules that one must adhere to when cooking what ought to be the national dish. A big black iron skillet, preferably the same one your grandmother cooked her chicken in, is a prerequisite. So is a brown paper sack (I use two stuffed together). Most of us have settled for Crisco instead of the traditional lard, but that's as far as we go with the fat, knowing better than to use things like olive oil or Smart Balance or unsalted butter.

You must have at least half an inch of fat, and you must heat it to where it sizzles if you spit in it. Oops, I mean sprinkle a few drops of water in it. Put your flour and seasonings in the paper sack and shake, shake, shake, not minding at all when the flour goes everywhere and your arms feel like they're falling off. Place one piece at a time in the skillet and never, ever crowd your chicken; give each piece its plenty of elbow room.

And, most important, never leave your chicken unattended. You must stand over the stove, wrapped in a heavy apron for your fat will sputter, long fork in hand, and baby each leg, thigh, breast, liver, wing, gizzard, bony back and neck, turning them often and lovingly, telling them what a pretty gold brown they're turning and how delicious and enticing they smell. If you leave, even for a minute, the chicken will burn.

Folks have fought bitter battles over things like whether to soak your chicken in buttermilk or sweet milk, with or without eggs. They've almost come to blows about to cover or not to cover. How much pepper is a major issue, as is the best draining medium: paper towel or newspaper. Should it be served with gravy and biscuits or not?

But we all agree on several basics. Chicken coated in corn flake crumbs or shake n' bake is not fried chicken. Oven-fried chicken doesn't count, either. If you want the battered, deep-fat fried version, go to KFC, not a true Southerner's kitchen. It's a travesty to use thyme and oregano and other fancy stuff in your flour dredge.

You must fix enough for everybody to have at least two pieces and, if you're any kind of a cook, enough so that there's a plateful leftover in the 'fridge for the munchers. And we all know that the best part of fried chicken is the crispy outside, skin and all, regardless of the advice of health and nutrition gurus.

I'm glad it's spring and fried chicken can make a rare appearance on our tables again. Bon appetit, everybody.

Page H. Onorato is a retired teacher.