Wings

It’s not fair to the commentator on NPR that I was driving past a stinky recycling center as she described her recipe. Nobody’s food sounds good when the stench of dumpster-beer-bottle-backwash fills your car. I tried to imagine an equitable do-over for the cookbook author, who clearly knew what she was talking about. If only I’d been cruising by a Japanese tea house, or traversing a giant suspension bridge instead, my mouth might have watered.

In truth, no waft of cherry blossoms or ocean air could make her tailgate-friendly peanut butter and jelly wings sound good. I’m sure she used quality, gourmet ingredients. But all I could think about were those unctuous, pin-striped jars of peanut butter and jelly that as kids, we knew didn’t need refrigeration after opening. Then I pictured a football field of clammy, raw chicken wings sitting in the lotus position. That was the second before I turned the radio off.

Wings bring out the worst in people. Including graphic designers. There’s an old Hardee’s in town that’s been hijacked by this restaurant chain:

Corporate swaps out the ellipsis for a town name when a franchisee signs on. But it’s just like when I put on an outfit that looks terrible, and then think that the right earrings will turn things around:

Note to Wings: don’t hire my seven-year-old to name the platter on the lower right.

“Want help getting these to your car?” the grocery bagger asked, holding a plump sack of uncooked wings in each fist. “No, thank you,” I replied. This was years ago, when I’d first moved to Virginia. My “car” was a bike. The only way to preserve my dignity was to cram the chicken into the front basket myself—alone. I’d invited some architecture school friends over to my house to watch the show “Northern Exposure.” Why not make some wings and score some brews, I thought. Clearly I hadn’t worked out the details. For the whole two-mile ride home, I had to lean over the rear wheel to counterbalance dinner. Then I went back for the beer.

A few months later, I was on a night flight to Kentucky. Out the pitch-black window, I noticed another aircraft flying dangerously close by. Its red tail light blinked in a terrifyingly even meter; its path never strayed from my view. I hesitated to say something to the flight attendant, but the safety of the passengers and crew was in my hands. “Stewardess?” I called, pointing nervously at the light. “It’s a—–!”  She bent over, and cleared the drinks from my neighbor’s tray. “The wing,” she said. “It’s the wing.”