The wings of change
Because of some stubborn genes from
my father and my mother’s mother that converged upon my poor soul, I really,
really, really do not like to admit that I am not always right. But seeing as
that I am still attempting to climb the mountain that is maturity, I’m
gathering strength to say those deeply challenging words: I was wrong.
This story
is, of course, totally based on chicken wings and today while I was
contemplating sauce options and comparing wings from a variety of restaurants,
I felt this little bit of hollow inside me that was not the hunger pangs. It
was my pride, reminiscing the awful things I used to say about those delicious
tiny bits of meat.
My long ago
theory, which I freely shared with anyone who would listen, was that chicken
wings were essentially the garbage part of the chicken. “There’s like, no
meat,” I would argue, carnivore that I am. My thought was that some brilliant
person many years ago figured out a way to capitalize on this seemingly
worthless part of the bird by deep frying it, covering it in sauce, and serving
it to drunk people at bars. “They won’t even care about the quality of the food
they eat,” I said. I stood behind this theory for quite awhile. Longer than I’d
like to admit.
But there’s
another part of this story. I had never actually eaten a decent chicken wing
before. You know, the kind with just the right amount of sauce and crispy
enough skin that when you bite into it, a tiny trickle of liquid fat squirts
out and rolls down your chin and mixes with the tangy zip of buffalo that has
already been smeared across your face. I had never even given them a try. I
suppose I thought I was too good for the lowly chicken wing, and yet there I
was, forming strong opinions.
This is
where I declare myself a complete fool.
I don’t
remember when I first tasted one of those bits of garbage meat, as I once
called them. I don’t remember if biting into them caused a glow of light around
my head or if suddenly my world got a little brighter. But boy, am I glad I
gave them a try and I’m woman enough to say, with greasy fingers waving a white
wet nap in the air, I was wrong.
The lessons
learned are many. For one, strong opinions best follow first hand, real life
experience. I’m not sure why, but people really like to say strong things
without actually knowing anything about the topic. If you don’t believe me,
turn on any news source during an election year and wait for your issue of
choice.
The second
lesson is, naturally, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.
The hotter
the better.
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