Hot Wings and life lessons

Since Harry's mission in Utica, New York, he's been searching for the perfect and elusive Buffalo Hot Wing on this side of the Mississippi. Our efforts in the past yielded close but marginal results.

Weeks ago we wandered the Macy's Home Store during a sale one Saturday, looking for important necessities (fluffy pillows and an ice cream scoop). As I sat in a corner debating Belgian waffle irons, Harry came up to me carting a box under his arm and wearing an expression reminiscent of a 5 year old boy with a large ball of cookie dough. He had found it. The very thing that would make all his Buffalo Hot Wing longings come to fruition.

Behold. The deep fryer.

And, because it was on sale (and because marriage is about give and take), I decided to support such a purchase and we bought it. Being raised by a Mother who embraces all foods green and fiberful, owning a deep fryer felt like violating my very upbringing. But we took the beloved artery clogger home along with the ice cream scoop and fluffy pillows, and I secretly wondered what my Mother would think when I told her I owned a machine capable of producing deep fried Twinkies.

Not one week later, Harry pulled it out, cleaned and prepped it, and we went to the store to purchase gallons of peanut oil, Louisiana Hot Sauce, and bone-in chicken wings.

I think that cooking Hot Wings is a lot like waiting in a long line at Disneyland. At first you jump in line, maybe not expecting much, wondering if you should have checked another line instead, content to sit back and wait. Then the line moves. Anticipation grows. You get close enough to the loading dock that you can hear the twinkly music on a loop and see the Disneyland employee's costume that resembles a Swiss yodeler. Soon you're only 4... 3... 2 people away from having your OWN plastic bobsled to ride in and then... you have arrived.

Harry poured in the peanut oil and it simmered and bubbled like a jacuzzi of lipid heaven. We tossed the wings in flour and salt and waited for the moment when they would make their oily plunge. The time came, the deed was done, and in spite of myself I actually felt a moment of awe.

Meanwhile the hot sauce simmered away on the stove. Soon the two met in a fiery red fury.

They were hot, juicy, crispy, savory, and yes, inspiring. My heart has been humbled. I have seen the light, everyone! And it's the color of HOT WINGS!

Oh, and Harry thought they were spot on too...