I’d like to start off by saying Happy New Year! According to
the Ethiopian calendar, it is now the first month of 2005. In our year it’s now
September, which means I’ve been keeping this blog for almost an entire year
(WHOOP! for surviving almost a year in country). In that time I’ve tried my
best to follow the Peace Corps recommendations for my blog and keep it about
Goal 3: Sharing Ethiopian culture with Americans. We’ve talked about Ethiopian
food, transportation, holidays, what I’ve learned, and my overall adaptation to
this amazingly beautiful country. But today, we’re going off the books and
talking about one of my absolute favorite subjects: hot wings.
Coming to Ethiopia, I knew I was going to be making a lot of
sacrifices. I was going to give up being able to see and talk to my family, hang
out with my friends, watch TV, and take hot showers. But for the most part, I
knew I’d be able to adjust. I’d been away from my family for a long time
before, I’d make new friends in Ethiopia and be able to reconnect with my old
friends when I got back, I could bring TV with me on a hard drive, and hot
showers I figured were overrated anyway (they’re most definitely not). The one
thing I worried about, and rightly so, was if I would ever be able to live
without hot wings. The answer, ladies and gentlemen, is not very well.
My love affair with hot wings began one fateful day
somewhere around the age of 11 or 12, a couple years before the years of teen
angst started (I didn’t have teenage angst, but a friend of mine did). Up until
that time, my favorite food had been spaghetti for as long as I could remember.
Then one Saturday, my dad came home with a curious paper bag. The bag was hot
and the bottom greasy, and on the side was a curious logo; “Wing Stop” the bag
proclaimed. I’d never heard of this Wing Stop before… What were hot wings? And
why were they stopping? My initial reaction was suspicion, but as soon as my
dad opened that bag and the smell hit me my mouth began to water and my heart
began to sing. Somehow in that moment, a tradition that was both lovely and monstrous
was born.
You see, that meal was such a success that my family decided
to make a tradition out of it. Every Saturday since, Saturday has been “Hot
Wing” day for my family. Most Saturdays would go like this:
1.
Wake up
by 9am - Dad never liked us to waste daylight, even on a weekend.
2.
Commence
yard work - Lots of it. Cutting grass, picking weeds, edging, trimming, raking,
you name it, we did it. Dad had us believe that this manual labor was good for
us. It would make us strong. Well I’m 23 and still thinner than most
toothpicks, so I think there were ulterior motives.
3.
Keep
doing more yard work – It may be good to stop for a short lunch, but once
you’ve filled your belly and cooled down, head back into the jungle.
4.
Pretend
to be done, but do more yard work - Around 2 or 3 when we thought we were
done, my parents usually remembered at least six more things we could do that
day.
5.
Make and
eat hot wings while watching a movie - When the yard work was finally done,
we’d all pitch in to make (or buy) delicious hot wings, which we’d sit down and
eat together while watching a movie.
6.
Go to bed
- Usually around 10pm. Wouldn’t want to fall asleep in church the next day.
I don’t know why my parents decided to put the best and
worst parts of my week in the same day, but that’s pretty much how an average
Saturday would go. I think it was my parents’ trying to experiment with
subliminal messaging. Well it worked. To this day, I still can’t see grass
clippings without my mouth watering a little in expectation of the hot wings
that were sure to follow. Once I left for college, my family continued the
tradition, though I was only there on the occasions when I came home for the
weekend. My first few years saw a decrease in my hot wing consumption, but once
the drive thru Wings N’ More opened only 5 minutes from my apartment senior
year, consumption level returned to normal. My roommates can definitely confirm
this.
And now here I sit in Ethiopia, not having had hot wings in
almost a year and not sure I can make it another year without. If I think about
them, my friends talk about them, or I even see the words “hot wings” in print,
my mouth starts to water. As a practical joke, one of my good friends sent me a
key chain shaped like a hot wing that looks eerily realistic. I was so
unprepared that I actually nibbled it in a moment of weakness to see if it
might be real. Yes, I admit it: I tried to eat the hot wing key chain. And I am
not ashamed. I’d do it again. And have. Almost once a week ever since.
Now, some of you may be asking, “Bernard! We get it! You
like hot wings. But did you seriously just spend an hour writing an entire blog
post about them? What about your family and friends? Why not write about them
instead?” First off, I do not merely like hot wings. I love them. And secondly,
yes I did. Because for me hot wings are more than just about food. I’ve eaten
hot wings so many times in my life, that for me many of my fondest memories and
best moments occurred with a wing in my hand and hot sauce on my cheek. I’ve
eaten them with my family while watching movies and while on road trips all
over. I’ve eaten them with friends at Buffalo Wild Wings on fun nights out, and
while being lazy in the apartment with the roommates. I’ve shared them with my
dog who I love to give scraps to, and my toilet when I’ve had a few too many. I’ve
even talked about them with people here in Ethiopia, who have no idea what I’m
talking about but are enthusiastic to learn all the same.
For me, hot wings represent everything I love and miss most
about America. For me, hot wings are a way I can
dedicate a whole blog to the things I love the most and actually be able to
finish without descending into incoherent blubbering. For me, hot wings are a
way to reflect on how I’ve grown into the person I am today. When it comes down
to it, for me, hot wings are a simple way to say “I love you.”
