Dinner last night was wings. Not just Any Wings. Oh, no. I despise Any Wings. Those are the wings you get from Dominos, Pizza Hut, Chiles, Insert National Chain Name Here, and the vast bulk of restaurants, bars and taverns. Any Wings are made by pimply faced kids or grimy fry cooks with a 3 day shadow. Any Wings are not made with love. There is no soul to them. They are sauced with a prepared mix designed by uninspired bean counters whos prefered foods include porridge and jello. They are served with a side of celery that you are actually expected to eat. Any Wings are generally soggy from sitting in a styrofoam container or from swimming in their tepid inferior sauce. They may even be (God, this even hurts to type) battered. Any Wings are beneath contempt.

No, these were real wings. Buffalo Wings. Lovingly individually hand cut and trimmed. Deep fried to a perfection of crispy skin and succulent flesh. Gently spoon turned in the sauce bowl to impart on each a perfect coat of fiery essence. There is no foul vegetable poluting the bowl of wings. No ersatz phallic symbols of watery fibrous celery or (gasp!) foul titian sticks of carrot to profane the perfection of the wing. There is a partner for the wings though. A bowl of luscious thick and chunky blue cheese dressing (no, not bleu - that is a foul spelling fostered on us by evil Canadians). This is not a dressing that is found on the shelf of a supermarket. No! Such watery roqueforts must not be allowed to befoul the wing. This is a dressing that comes from the refrigerated section with words like "Extra Thick" and "Super Chunky" on the label. A dressing worthy of accompanying the wing.

And the sauce. How do I even begin to describe the sauce? Its thick reddish brown appearance can only allude to the smallest hint of the cullinary delight that even the tiniest sample can evoke. When taken into the mouth of its lucky ruminant it blesses the tongue with a rolling tingle from tip to base. An orgy of sensual delight overtakes the ravaging eater as the sauce fights back with passionate fire and then slowly succumbs to linger on the palate in abject prostration. But this aqua vitae, this veritable milk of the pepper, is not done for it still burns lovingly on the lips in piquant reminder of its spent glory.

Of course there is a price to pay for such unfettered delight. There is a yang to this yin. This price is alluded to in the title for this post. I'll not elucidate further.