Please sir, I want some Wings N' More..

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.”