Rated: 13+ · Monologue · Food/Cooking · #1294472
Hot wing hysteria reaches mass proportions across the Great Divide.
|It still makes me laugh to this day. Oh, not the illusion that buffaloes have wings; on the contrary, it was the sight of the line outside my house as I was frying up those hot and tasty delights.|
Many years ago when I lived in Houston, Texas, I learned the fine art of "fixin" spicy Southwestern style hot wings, also known as Buffalo Wings. It became an instant crowd pleaser. I was inevitably implored into whipping up a hefty amount of those hot delights whether for small parties or huge events. Now, real Texas men may not eat quiche, however, patrol a platter filled with perfectly placed mouthwatering poultry portions, hot as hell, then envision how fast they stop in their tracks and brazenly scoop up a plate full.
The event was so successful; I vowed to try this experiment when I relocated to Wyoming. No surprise, Wyomingites also enjoy spicy stuff on their tongues. I was definitely on to something very powerful. Thereafter, I hot winged myself through rugged cowboy land tempting and teasing the tough timber men while wielding wicked wings at workmen and women alike. This tour of travel was soon to end as subsequent relocation took me to the West Coast.
Yes, California here I come, bringing baggage, and bulky boxes, and one heck of a humongous cast iron frying pan. Consequently, the family settled into their most recent home, and the children attended their new schools. I unpacked the kitchen boxes and quickly found the items needed. There I stood, armed with an industrial sized stove, several pounds of chicken wings, and an enormous frying pan. Moreover, I was not afraid to use them.
As the afternoon hours crept by, the ticking and chiming clock reminded me that the children would be home from school shortly. Powerful, peppery, addictive aroma of frying hot wings filled the house. I wondered if the tempting treat would work some magic in our new residence. The screen door flung open. "Mmmmm, Mom, you are making hot wings. Can my friend taste them?"
Ultimately, as the weeks flashed by at a blink of an eye, I noticed additional children stopping by for a quick snack of the renowned hot wings. I marveled when I peeked outside and noticed a line starting near the front porch. It was a vision of hungry, smiling faces patiently waiting on the innocuous corner where I lived.
The aroma of the frying delights filled the neighborhood with such a demanding force of presence; it was irresistible. Thereafter, hot wings became a Friday staple at chez moi.
Before long, the peppery fragranced home became the local bus stop of hungry scholars on a mission of appetite satisfaction.
I remember those days with fondness. The smiling faces of those ravenous after schoolers made my day more interestingly spicy than the cayenne pepper that infused those famous wings.
I often wondered as the years wore on if the youthful diners of the scrumptious appetizers ever thought back to those flavorful snacks. Do they ever wish for another taste of the past?
I know I do.