Sunday, February 6, 2011

First Signs Special Report: Wings

One Sunday a year, people gather together on their couches to watch the pinnacle of pigskin, Super Bowl. The majority of the nation gather with their favorite drinking buddies and watch grown men pummel each other for a few inches of progress. To quote Grand Theft Auto III, "Football now that's an American sport! It teaches you good wholesome American values man, like stealing other peoples land by force and wearing tight pants while you do it!"

Super Bowl was always special to me for two reasons. For one thing, it got me out of Sunday School. Yes, even though I never went to church I had to go to CCD every Sunday evening. There was one day a year we got off the hook, Super Bowl Sunday. This, to me, proves once and for all who really owns Sunday. Sorry Jesus, but football takes precedence.

Jesus still decides who wins though.

Secondly, it was the buffalo wings. I don't know how wings became synonymous with Super Bowl parties but I like it. Maybe it's Pizza Hut's fault. Either way, it's only during the game that I don't feel like a slob having a plate full of wings in front of me. With buffalo sauce smeared across my mouth and a plethora of soiled paper towels to my side, I am thankful for social norms being abolished for one evening. All because of Super Bowl.

Eating wings during the Puppy Bowl isn't as socially acceptable.

Here is the thing, eating wings is not about the sustenance. Nobody goes into it expecting to have a full tummy by the end. In essence, it's all about the work it requires. It's the act of having to rip apart the cartilage and tearing the tendons. It's cheap, trashy food but it's oh so satisfying. The greatest payoff, for any true wing lover, is the bones piled up in the corner of the plate. The accumulation, piling up to the point where you need an auxiliary plate solely for the bones itself. This is why real men don't buy boneless. It's too easy. It's the sissy way to go about your munching.

Boneless is like eating pizza with a fork and knife.

There are two camps of wing eaters: wings and drumsticks. For me, wings are better. Don't ask me why I cannot say. Equally important is the sauce. Forget about BBQ, it's all about hot buffalo sauce. The best sauce is borderline masochistic. The best sauce clears your sinuses and burns your mouth. If your lips don't burn from post-traumatic stress induced flashbacks about the devil sauce than it's not hot enough. My personal favorite hot sauce? Franks. Franks makes everything taste better.

Buy a gallon of it.

Appetizers are hors d'oeuvre's idiot cousin and wings are the king of the appetizers. With the Wing Bowl (starting every year since 1993) there is even a competition devoted solely to man's love of wings. Jonathan "Super" Squibb, winner of the past three Wing Bowls, is even a South Jersey resident. Appetizers could never constitute a whole meal, no matter how many you stick on a plate. But, wings are better than a meal, what wings are is heaven with a side of celery sticks.

No comments:

Post a Comment