Ornithology and the human digestive tract, or, how I learned to love Johnny’s chicken wings

DAVIS—Heartburn be damned, I say there is no better way to show that good, old-fashioned Sarah Palinesque American spirit than by chowing down four to five pounds of spiced poultry with, say, one to 18 beers to wash it all down in the frigid coziness of a cold Fourth of July afternoon or a warm Thanksgiving morning and following it all up with wiping my mouth with the American flag and wiping my ass with the Canadian flag.
That’s just the way I roll.
Johnny makes some great wings. There is a certain allure to baked chicken wings. I know “purists” will scoff at such a suggestion, but for those of use who are trying not to die from a massive heart attack by the age of 12 and who like our chicken skin as crisp as a Canadian government-certified healthcare plan, such a means is not only justifiable, it is warranted. If I had such a plan, I could eat all the fried wings I wanted, but I don’t.
Fried wings are greasy, plain and simple. Normally, I not only abide by the grease policy, I endorse it with enthusiasm. But there is something, however, to baked wings that really grabs me by the colon and does not, despite my strongest efforts to shake it loose like an undigested piece of corn, let go.
The thing about fried wings is that they are hardly ever battered. So in order to bring a nice crisp to the skin they need to be charred beyond the point or recognition, leaving a dry center and an oily surface. And a dry center and an oily surface is exactly the reason why McCain-Palin need your vote.
Wings are simple, like most American food—imported, improved and modified for the masses, pretentious French people be damned.
Wings are a delicacy of necessity; the remnants of a waste-nothing era long overdue for a rebirth.
Just like barbecue and most soul food, they are the fruits of a people who did not have the luxury of selection. They took what they could and through culinary genius not only made it edible, they made it so good that it became the envy of the higher-class people who through power or leverage brought the hardship which caused such discoveries to be needed.
That is why wings and brisket and pork shoulder, previously thought to be nearly inedible by the upper-class white folks, has become as American as American can be. As American as soccer and frogs legs.
Baked wings are healthier and, frankly, better. Usually, I abstain from advocating or engaging in anything healthy but in this case I make an exception.
And Johnny has this garlic, pepper hot sauce that he coats them with that would make a vegetarian switch sides.
It is a very special sight to see the hoard of dangerously hungry young men move in as the two giant bowls come to the table—one full of wings, the other empty for the bones—and watch as, with amazing swiftness, the bowl of wings drops lower and lower as the bone bowl gets higher and higher.
I’ve seen five pounds of wings disappear quicker than an Oakland Raiders fourth-quarter lead (and the subsequent head coach, for that matter).
I hope to see them disappear just as quickly tonight, or possibly sometime this weekend, if Johnny doesn’t have to work or have some other pressing engagement this weekend.
I figure the “I buy, we fly, you cook, Izza cleans” rule still applies. I don’t know if Izza knows that rule yet. If she reads this, then she knows.
Now if only I could get Izza to enjoy the pleasure, nay, the privilege, of eating wings, all would be right in the world. And we invade Canada. Then everything would be just right.