(Source: weheartit.com)
![thedailyfeed:
Did you know the man on every KFC sign nearly died a penniless failure? Here’s the story of how sheer stubbornness and a great recipe made Colonel Sanders an instantly recognizable chicken icon.
In 1955, at the age of 65, with no education, no connections, an aching body, a family to support, [Harland Sanders] had nothing except a burning need to start again — and only his $105 Social Security check to do it on.
And start again he did. A few indispensable assets had survived the loss of the Sanders Court and Café in Corbin, Ky., and they were put into play with all the brio he could muster. He had a beat-up pressure cooker; some bags of seasoned flour; an old car with his face painted on the side; and some paper goods with the same image. He had a ready line of patter, polished by his decades of desperate hustling, and he had his colonelcy as a powerful prop. The latter — an honorary title bestowed by Kentucky Gov. Ruby Laffoon in 1936 — was no great distinction. Laffoon could, and did, give it to anyone he wanted, for any reason. It was, in fact, just an oversize proclamation in ceremonial script. But the Colonel played his pseudomilitary role to the hilt, even going so far as to have his beard dyed white and wearing a preposterous planter’s suit to fit the image of a real Kentucky gentleman-soldier.
And — most important — he had a recipe for a kind of fried chicken that was both better and easier to make than any kind then known.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4qyxmwj6K1qf5y35o1_400.jpg)
Did you know the man on every KFC sign nearly died a penniless failure? Here’s the story of how sheer stubbornness and a great recipe made Colonel Sanders an instantly recognizable chicken icon.
In 1955, at the age of 65, with no education, no connections, an aching body, a family to support, [Harland Sanders] had nothing except a burning need to start again — and only his $105 Social Security check to do it on.
And start again he did. A few indispensable assets had survived the loss of the Sanders Court and Café in Corbin, Ky., and they were put into play with all the brio he could muster. He had a beat-up pressure cooker; some bags of seasoned flour; an old car with his face painted on the side; and some paper goods with the same image. He had a ready line of patter, polished by his decades of desperate hustling, and he had his colonelcy as a powerful prop. The latter — an honorary title bestowed by Kentucky Gov. Ruby Laffoon in 1936 — was no great distinction. Laffoon could, and did, give it to anyone he wanted, for any reason. It was, in fact, just an oversize proclamation in ceremonial script. But the Colonel played his pseudomilitary role to the hilt, even going so far as to have his beard dyed white and wearing a preposterous planter’s suit to fit the image of a real Kentucky gentleman-soldier.
And — most important — he had a recipe for a kind of fried chicken that was both better and easier to make than any kind then known.
