“Over 1.6 billion wings were consumed during the last Super Bowl game alone. Nearly one billion of those were eaten by tribal members, most of whom returned home with greasy fingers.”
I don’t know of any tribal member who doesn’t like–nor regularly consumes–chicken.
Stereotypes aside, chicken—or as we affectionately call it, ‘da bird’– has been a staple of the Black (hue-man) diet since Adam chased down a bow-legged hen in Da Garden.
Being the first acknowledged chauvinist, Adam ate the breast and left the legs and wings for Eve.
But after observing Eve in an orgasmic state while attacking a wing, he followed her lead ‘once again’ and tried it.
The rest is history.
And if you don’t believe that tale (and I know you don’t), I recently learned the anthropologists who discovered Lucy (the first hue-man being) in Africa also found chicken bones next to her body. And a bottle of empty hot sauce (I’m pushing it, I know, but I’m on a roll right now!).
Some historians believe she committed suicide when she ran out of Red Hot (sorry!).
Not buying it? Okay fair enough. Well, that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.
Today, Adam and Eve’s descendants of all hues and nationalities love dem wings—plain, spicy, or bar-b-qued.
Over 1.6 billion wings were consumed during the last Super Bowl game alone. Nearly one billion of those were eaten by tribal members, most of whom returned home with greasy fingers.
Whether you know it or not, there’s a relationship between chicken wings and God’s decision to give Black men big lips (aside from having more butt to kiss).
White folks claim the spicy wing was created in 1964 at the Anchorage Bar in Buffalo, New York. Of course, we know better. Our ancestors were adding hot peppers to ‘da bird’ when Europeans were eating raw dinosaur steaks.
It is said that the average American will eat 17,653 wings in their life. That’s 24 wings a month.
Our ancestors held the record, albeit Guinness wasn’t alive yet to acknowledge our eating habits eons ago.
If world records were maintained about Black eating habits, we would lay claim to wings, pork chops, catfish, and Fiery Hot Crunchy Cheese Curls. Anything with hot sauce—including scrambled eggs—is subject to a dab or two.
In fact, we are spice connoisseurs.
Whenever the wife and/or family and I go out on Friday nights for a fish fry at a White restaurant, I take my own hot sauce because most White folks don’t know the difference between hot sauce and tabasco.
Point of History:
While many tribal members of my generation took advantage of the pork innards ‘given away’ by local butchers, we preferred a healthier protein.
And since the working poor could not afford steak (despite Ronnie Reagan’s claim of welfare queens using food stamps to purchase lobsters and filet mignon), chicken has served as the preferred alternative to pork since we morphed from Negro to Black. That is best evidenced by the switch from ham hocks or neckbones to season beans and greens to smoked turkey.
Incidentally, there was a time when we violated biblical scripture and made catfish our top choice, even though it was forbidden, along with shrimp and lobster.
According to the Old Testament, any fish ‘without fins and scales must not be eaten.’
But, since we do as they do and not as the original Hebrews did, we ignored that mandate, along with the ones on fornication, lying, and serving another god: the Democratic Party, gold jewelry, and playing (maybe that should be ‘paying’) the lottery.`
Last I checked, South Carolinians consumed the most wings in the U.S., with Wisconsin being in the middle of the rankings. That’s due to the weather (less barbecue time, I assume).
But I guarantee Milwaukeeans consume the most in the state, partly because Brewtown is home to the largest Black tribe in the ‘cheese head land.’ During the summer, White Wisconsinites prefer brats, which, they conveniently ignore, are also made from pork.
Guess they don’t know they’re going to hell.
Our loyalty to wings has continued even though they cost as much as we speak these days.
Instead, we watch out for sales and stock up for lean times or set our calendar for those card parties where we know they will be on the menu.
I can say without shame that we eat so much chicken that we’ve made wing preparation and consumption an art form.
Every household has its unique spin, and you can judge the quality based on a person’s eating rhythm and amount of consumption.
Another historical note: the three great migrations from the south introduced to their Northern brethren’s vast variations of styles passed on from generation to generation. My great-aunt made a version of smothered wings that no one could duplicate. Twenty years later, that garlicky taste lingers on my tongue.
While spicy- not to be confused with so-called Buffalo—wings are a staple in America today; Black folks serve up equally tasty wings, whether covered or not, fried or grilled.
A good wing, like good bar-b-que, doesn’t have to have sauce to be worthy.
My wife likes to use a variety of spices focused around minced garlic and something in a brown paper bag she locks in the safe. She allows me to see the island spices she uses, but what’s in that bag has remained a mystery. In fact, it was in one of those top-secret document file boxes Donald Trump was trying to hide from the U.S. Department of Justice.
My queen uses an ample amount of cayenne pepper, which means they carry a nice kick- albeit favorable enough that you don’t need to look in the direction of our vast assortment of hot sauces.
Rarely do we fry wings or anything else in our household.
The wife and family enjoy grilling, but 81.3% of the time, our wings are baked, which is my specialty.
My ‘plain’ wings are modeled after hers, but when I feel in the mood, I can put enough unique ingredients on them that folks (particularly my sons) have been known to hide a few during the meal to ensure they have some to take home.
My children and grands were raised on my super, duper, sinful/saintly hot wings, known from coast to coast to either put hair on your chest or burn it off.
I’m not bragging, but I won first place for my hot wings at the ‘Men Who Cook’ contest a few years ago and second place for my dry version (credit to my wife).
Thinking I could trick my sons outta stealing my hot wings, I added a new sauce I discovered while mining for the grave site of my ancestor, Rameses III, in the Egyptian desert (I know, am exaggerating again). The 2,000-year-old sauce burnt through the baking pan, but there were wings left after everybody left that day.
Even with a lesser amount of secret sauce, my ultra-wings are so hot they have been used by dieters (they literally burn the ‘blank’ out of you.)
More often than not, when we invite new white families over to visit, we prepare them in advance with our ‘wing-eating manual.’
My wife and I wrote the book after attending a corporate reception, and most of the white folks were eating wings with a knife and fork. Talk about blasphemy!
Speaking of vanilla, there was no need to send a copy of our book to my bonus daughter, who looks White, but not only has a sister’s butt but can better relate than many of the bloodlines.
In truth, I gave her permission to marry my son only after evaluating her wing-eating technique.
Being devious, I prepared a batch of wings with ‘medium’ heat but set aside a half dozen with my ‘dieters wings’ for her.
Much to my surprise, she not only ate them without flinching—albeit she did turn a different color and required a napkin to stop the nose running—but asked for seconds.
But what really sold me was her hard stare at me when I finished my first wing. She went so far as to say I left too much meat on the bone!
She then bit off the tip of the wing—that crispy point.
I thought that was something only ‘country sisters’ did.
I eat the drum part of the wing in three bites and then generally push the meat through the two small bones of the wing arm (sounds gross, doesn’t it?)
But then I heard Sherwin Hughes explain his technique last week: to twist the large bone 720 degrees (twice around), and the meat will detach itself.
I prepared wings the next day, just be sure.
Had my bonus daughter (the uninformed would call her an ‘in-law’) used a knife and fork, I would have tapped my son on the shoulder.
Instead, I have a new grandson to play and ‘educate’ on the real origins of (wo)mankind and early African civilization.
She’s a blessing to our households, and I know her children will be exceptional in terms of education and wing eating.
My only concern is that she shows up ‘on time’ for family night.
I have yet to convince her of the time-honred tradition of CPT (‘colored people time’). Her punctuality may upset the entire African American time cycle.
Knowing how Black folks love dem wings, everyone now runs the risk of missing out because, henceforth, my son and his clan will always be on time and get the best—fattest—wings off the top. —Hotep.