I am the Wing King… I can do anything


Proper napkining technique. It’s what separates us from the Iowans.

Justice is blind, they say. But you know how they also say that when one sense is taken away, the others become supernaturally acute in order to compensate? (Is that statement offensive to blind people? Maybe? I don’t know… You know what? Screw ’em. I don’t care. Blind people can’t read my blog anyway. And as long as none of you people [I’m talking to you here, Sandy] read it to them, I’m in the clear.)

That’s exactly what happened to me last night. As an official judge at WingFest, while carefully evaluating 18 diverse entries whose identities remained secret, my abilities of gustatory perception were elevated to preternatural levels. I was like a superhero with the amazing power to isolate and recognize flavors and then rate them on a relative scale. (The comic book practically writes itself.)

“Too much honey.”

“The cracked pepper is a bit much.”

“There’s beer in the sauce. Is it Leinie’s?”

My fellow judges and I wound our way through a flavor wonderland while leaving a delicious road map of scores to guide the evening’s guests. We saw it as a duty – a calling – a responsibility. And we wore that mantle proudly.

I ate wings. They gave me free beers while I was doing it. Then I went on to help Christine and Corinne sell a bunch of cheesecake. (She has some left over. You should totally contact Christine’s Sweet Confections, because you just might be able to score yourself a special limited-time deal.)

Corinne and Christine

Christine and Corinne and a whole bunch of fantastic cheesecake.

All in all, it was a magical evening. And while today I awoke an ordinary mortal again, I’ll always remember the night I soared with the eagles, while eating the wings.


Eighteen wings rated and categorized. You’re welcome, wing lovers.