My girlfriend and I fought for the first time in 2013 over the crispiness of chicken wings.
“You might want to put the other wings in the pan to get them crispier,” I advised.
“That’s it,” she scowled. “I’m never cooking for you again.”
Forget the contentious drumstick vs wing exchange that took place at Albertsons. Rage steamed within my soul, like buffalo sauce stewing from the crock pot.
“What the f*ck are you talking about?” I shot back.
“I cut two dozen bones, put them in the crock pot, and now you expect me to put them on the pan while you eat?” She asked.
I tore a wing apart with my teeth, split apart a bone and shouted “These are great–really great! I just like a crispy wing.” I noticed she brushed her plate aside. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“I’m not hungry anymore,” she replied.
“You’re eating!” I exclaimed as I ran up to the kitchen to begin frying. I turned manic flipping the wings in the pan. “Welcome to Crispy’s” I yelled. “Crispiest wings in town! Who wants crispy wings?” I asked. “We got em’ here at Crispy's!”
She sat silent on the couch refusing to talk. I preyed on the new crispy wings and pretended to care about the Rose Bowl.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You made great wings. Seriously, these wings are delicious.”
She remained silent. Knowing she comes from a Stanford family I spitefully declared, “Go Wisconsin!”
“I’m sorry,” I started again. “You made great wings and I had no reason to lose my temper.”
My blow-up weighed on me well into the night. I felt like a real chicken for losing my cool and yelling at the girl I love over some stupid clucking wing dings. I have long struggled with minor rage issues. Though infrequent, when I do lose my temper loved ones are the ones who are affected the most. Rather than fume, I must leave the room and take a walk. I could visit the local library or buy Sour Patch Kids at Albertsons. Cussing make me feel bad and the recipient feel worse. Foul language is for the birds. Here’s to a clean 2013, and not being an asshole, from all of your friends at Crispy's.
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