So, Amy, you ask, what brings you to the point where you would be willing, some would say, even eager, to consume raspberry-flavored chicken wings that had fallen in the snow, which were fought viciously over by a pack of wild dogs and then thrown into the house, piece-by-piece, in a desperate but valiant rescue attempt by a handicapped girl laying prone upon the ice? But, as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Daughter, Sydney responded to the announcement that all after-school activities were cancelled due to inclement weather with her usual resiliency by declaring that she will drive fifty miles with a broken ankle to get her hair cut. Of course...that makes perfect sense. When I realized that common sense was futile, I shifted over to plan B (otherwise known as the "If you can't beat 'em, then at least benefit from it" plan) by reminding Syd that the beauty salon is conveniently located next to my favorite wings place.
Eight inches of blonde hair later, Sydney was bravely hobbling on her crutches in near-white-out conditions to buy her mommy a yummy. She carefully navigated her way home, parking in front of the house before preparing to make her way across the icy driveway, shrouded in darkness when disaster struck.
According to eye witness accounts and Sydney's own blubbering blatherings, it seemed to happen in a flash. Thrilled to welcome Sydney home, the dogs charged forward with their usual fervor. Their level of enthusiasm ramped considerably when they realized that, if wasn't just Sydney...it was Sydney with raspberry wings! Apparently there was a hail storm of chicken parts that hit the pavement and Sydney, determined to rescue my wings, threw herself bodily on the tiny grenades, soldier-crawling into the house across a minefield of meat. Vowing to leave "no chicken wing behind," Sydney returned, again and again to the massacre site, salvaging what she could until it was all over.
The post-traumatic stress of the great chicken wing ruckus of 2014 was too much for my daughter. She dissolved into an impressive bout of weeping that would not abate for well over thirty minutes. While attending to her little sister, Savannah was almost too late to address the second assault as the dachshund summited the hill, getting up on the dining room table to reach the wings and discovering a half-eaten Denny's design-your-own-burger wrapped up in Sydney's backpack. Chlo was really racking up the war trophies.
Meanwhile, I'd finally arrived home from work and was, naturally, devastated by the news. After comforting Sydney ("You're eighteen, for pete's sake, get over it. Worse things are going to happen to you,"), I rushed to inspect the survivors. My criteria for consumability turns out to be VERY different from Savannah's but I still managed to argue 10 out of the 12 wings onto my plate. I know what you're thinking, out there in blog-land, I know you think you have a bone to pick with me, but anyone who has ever indulged in the 5-second rule doesn't have a leg to stand on. Yeah, I'm going to be spitting up a hair-ball filled with dog fur tomorrow but it was totally worth it. All'swell that ends well...I got my wings, Syd's hair looks terrific, and the dogs had a blast channeling their inner-wolf instincts.
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