Grilled Wings
Now that's a heap of wings! And a fine supper they made. As well they should: sweet, hot, spicy.
When I was a kid, we had fried chicken at my grandparents' house almost every Sunday we were there. My grandmother always tried to grab the wings. Even put them on her plate before she set the platter down on the table. And then there was always a show-down: she and her sisters, fighting for the wings. "Oh, Sis, let me have that. You take a breast."
I thought it was martyrdom, saving the best for everyone else. Um, no. Now I know it was rank selfishness--because a wing is definitely crunchier, juicier, fattier, and skinishier. (What would be the adjective for having more skin? Skinnier? That sounds way wrong for chicken wings.) It was one of my favorite parts of developing recipes for THE ULTIMATE COOK BOOK (which you can find here)--so we ended up leaving three recipes in that volume.
Anyway, Bruce made some wings last night on the grill because we had a momentary day of sunshine and warmth, into the low 70s.
Boy, were those things good.





















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