“How about some hot wings from the new carry-out place?” my honey asked.
“I don’t remember a hot wings carry-out place. What’s the name of it?”
“Wing City or something like that… I can’t remember.”
“Okay, sounds good — as long as they are not too hot.”
I checked with my daughter.
Yes, she wanted some hot wings too — as long as they were not too hot.
We had a bad experience previously with wings from the pizza place. Somehow they got the hot sauce mixed up with the mild sauce. That little fiasco turned me against hot wings for a while. I don’t mind spicy food, but food so hot you can’t eat it is another matter.
We finally decided on bone vs. boneless, mild vs. hot, and regular Buffalo wings vs. other varieties. We were not sure what they had, but Honey was off to the new wing place to give it a try.
The food smelled delicious when he returned and the sticker on the box said MILD. I made sure of that. We were ready to chomp down.
I bit into the first wing. Something was wrong. “My mouth! My mouth! They are too hot!”
“But it says ‘mild’!”
Flames were shooting out of my mouth and I couldn’t reply. If this was mild I could not imagine hot. No celery to cool down with, nothing, I thought, as I fanned my flaming tongue with my hand.
I must be a fluke — I’ll try a different one. But it was hotter than the first. I tried to chew with my teeth and not let the food touch my tongue. Tears rolled from my eyes as molten lava filled my mouth. I quenched the inferno with half a diet coke while steam spewed from my nostrils.
I was going to kill my honey. He better prepare to die.
“Are yours too hot?” I asked my honey.
“Mine are the ‘medium’ flavor,” he said munching happily.
They couldn’t be any hotter. The man has no taste buds. His tongue must be made of asbestos. These wings were so hot the box was charred. These hot wings were from hell.
My daughter, who, also had the “mild” wings agreed.
Maybe if I wash off some of the sauce, I thought. I held one under the faucet and then tried one more time.
My mouth exploded like I had eaten a hand grenade. As rockets flared and fireworks lit the kitchen ceiling, I wiped the sweat from my face and visualized my death by cremation.
There was no use. I could not eat these wings. It could not possibly be that a different place had also mixed up the sauces? I couldn’t even throw them away in the trash can. They needed to go to the toxic waste dump with other hazardous materials.
I staggered into the kitchen for an ice cube to cool my blistered tongue and promised God that I would never eat another hot wing from hell as long as I live, regardless of how mild they are supposed to be.
Some people are flame-eaters and some are not.
Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss