What I Do to Chicken Wings

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I love chicken wings. When I cook them, they are baked, dry – no oil or butter – and I only add the sauce at the end.

In my old age, I have discovered that I adore crispy chicken skin. This is rather difficult to create when baking instead of deep-frying, and more time-intensive. The whole idea of eating fatty anything on purpose is hard for me – bordering on disgusting. But if it is crispy-crunchy-salty-hot? All good!

Since we don’t have dedicated wing restaurants here, the only time I get chicky wangs (yes, I call them that, fuck off, it makes iDJ happy when I talk southerin) is occasionally in the pub for a birthday/special event, or if I make them myself.

The pub ones are edible, but not crispy, so I end up leaving behind most of the wing as I can not eat greasy soft fat. Bleurgh. It makes me feel ill to even think about it – unless the soft fat is butter, which I could eat with a spoon. Mmm, butter.

Anyhoo. When we make wings at home, they come in a big package and need cleaned (feather removal) and cut into sections. This is where I probably diverge from most people who make wangs at home. You either don’t cut them up, or you do cut them up and then discard the wing-tip.

The wing-tip, if crunchy, is my absolute favourite part of a chicken. I would gladly take all those bits that restaurants in America toss out and feast until I turned into a chicken. You know that threat your momma always gave when you ate too much of one thing? Sort of like ‘If you make that face, it will stick’? I’m thinking of the one where she said, “You are going to turn into a _____!” (FYI – mine as a kid would be a black olive, a BBQ rib, cheese, or a ham sandwich.)

The thing with me is… I don’t just eat the meat and skin. Oh no.

I eat the bone.

Crunch crunch crunch!

If it gets chewy at all, I stop. If it stays crunchy? I eat the whole damn thing. For example:

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Chicken wing-tip before I ate it…

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Wing afterward. I have left the two joints, as they weren’t crunchy enough.

Nom! Devoured. I really enjoy eating the bones. It sure might be weird, but I’d like to think of it as eating all of the chicken except for the cluck.

Anyone else do this? Sled, you are exempt from the question, if you managed to read this far!

We use Frank’s Hot Wing Sauce, which luckily we can buy here. But what I do miss are teriyaki wings, and garlic butter wings, as I don’t know how to make the sauces with what I find in Ireland. I’d love some tips! Pun not intended.

I Think I’ve Been Insulted…

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Probably not. Probably they have to ask everyone.

But it didn’t make me happy to be asked if I “want one of the lads to carry that out” just now at the shop. ‘That’ being a 24-pack of beer that I carried to the register in one hand, put on the belt with one hand, and carried out in one hand (until the plastic started to tear).

iDJ says they ask him the same question… so I shouldn’t be frowning right now, right? Or maybe they think he is old and weak, too? I somehow can’t see a 20-year-old lad getting asked the same question.

No blame to the clerk, no hatred and I didn’t throw a strop about it, of course. It’s just a little annoying.

Fifty Shades of Grey – Best Meme Ever

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Second time I’ve posted this. My good friend created this way before the rubbish book that is 50 Shades became a rubbish movie. Since the rubbish movie is opening, this is what I have to say:

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Don’t buy cable ties and duct tape. Help out a real grey with a sad history instead.

Laughing at Lokii

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Short post!
This scene unfolded an hour or so ago. It happens a lot, but this time I managed to get a photo:

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Having a bath on my legs, his legs akimbo, as cats are wont to do. So hey, why have cats if you can’t make fun of them now and again?

To give him some dignity – he was licking his leg, not his furballs!

A Touch of Frost, of Spring

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I’m happy to announce that my drive home was, for the first time in what is probably months, not pitch black. Considering I don’t leave work until 6:30pm, that’s a very good thing. We are on the upswing to spring, folks, I promise!

I have some flowers to prove it, of course:

First, some idiot roses, now freeze-dried.

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One of the massive white ones out back. Clearly wasn’t ready for the cold.

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And one of the small pink/red ones out front. What were they thinking to bloom in mid-winter? Okay I do know that roses can’t think. Maybe. I did a science experiment back in the day that made me wonder about that, actually.

On to less-dead things. Of course, the very first flower we see in Ireland is the snowdrop. We haphazardly stuck a few in the ground 3 or 4 years ago, and they are reproducing like bunnies on Viagra.

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Love them! These are closed, sorry – I’m not home during the hours of the day when they open up and show their green, bee-orchid bellies.

Crocus are on the way up too. Not open yet, but the poor things are in a spot where we are likely to walk on them. Oh well.

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Is that snow? Not by my Northern Ohio standards. It will have to do.

The daffodils caught us by surprise . This time of year I rarely go into the corner where they grow unless I’m doing dog-poop-scoop duty.

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They are about 8in tall already – 20cm. Can’t believe I only spotted them on Monday! Guess that means my weed cover grass is too long.

Lastly, the clematis. I have little knowledge of how to care for this plant. I stuck it in the ground at the base of our weed-tree (a grey willow) and let it go to town. iDJ loves them, so these are ‘his’ plants despite me being the caretaker. Any green you see is clematis, or moss…

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This one is a couple of years old now – maybe three? I have a bad time sense. Want to say this is the second spring for it, anyway. These buds look so tender, it makes me worry for them. It’s below freezing now and has been most of the day. I have to trust they know what they are doing. Oh – this photo is taken at my eye-level, and I’m 5ft8in (rounded up to 173cm). So, I’m pretty sure the plant is happy and healthy.

Hope all of you are happy and healthy too, and have some signs of spring in your life.

Roses for Mama

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heretherebespiders:

Reblogging my own post – a first – because today would have been my mother’s 74th birthday.

Originally posted on heretherebespiders:

I bought myself a new rosebush recently – a peace rose. We had one in Florida, at the house where I did most of my growing up. Mom loved it. She wasn’t much of a gardener: the rose didn’t get a lot of attention and bloomed rarely. But when it did, she was ecstatic. I remember. I will never forget.

The 17th anniversary of my mother’s death is September 1. That year, 1997, it was also the Labor Day holiday – which meant exactly nothing to me at the time but makes it worse for me when they coincide again.

This post is for you, mom. I know you’d be thrilled with all of my beautiful flowers. But these roses are just for you, and I will think of you and smile with every new bloom.

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This is Relevant to my Interests

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Full site here – historical thesaurus of drinking words – but I’m going to take screen shots in case you can’t be arsed to follow the link. Perhaps you might be half-shaved, toxic, poggled, shickery, or peloothered yourself right now. Why not, it is a Monday, after all!

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I love language. And I love drinking. We still do use a lot of these terms commonly, of course.

In Ireland we have quite a few that may or may not be on the list. I’ve had a few cans and I’m not going back to look!

Rotten (usually preceded by absolutely), rat-arsed, baloobud (likely regional to my town), steamboats, mashed, pished, totalled, poleaxed, writ off (also regional, apparently is said ‘rit aff’), buckled, spannered, slaughtered, wankered (sounds like a really good night, that), pissed as a fart (I love that one), langered or langers, locked, off yer head… it does go on!

Did you find favourites in the list, or have any new ones for the class?

Conversation With a Siamese Cat.

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That’s the face. The face I get before he starts talking…

Mraaahhhh
Yes.
Mraaahhhh
Uh-huh.
Mraaahhhh
Okay.
Mraaahhhh
Yep.
Mraaahhhh
I know.
Mraaahhhh.
I know.
Mraaahhhh
I KNOW.
Mraaahhhh
I heard you!
Mraaahhhh
Enough!
Mraaahhhh
Stop.
Mraaahhhh
Stoooppppp.
Mraaahhhh
Oh god shut up.
Mraaahhhh
What? What do you want?
Mraaahhhh
Anything, anything to make you shut up…
Mraaahhhh
What do you want from meeeeee?!?
Mraaahhhh

Mraaaaahhhhhhhh!

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Provenance

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Right, so. I’m behind on posting, on writing, on interacting with all my lovely blog-friends. My brain just hasn’t wanted to share. It’s been months actually since I’ve made an effort. So, I have very little today.

I have a lot of followers from the USA, and I wanted to talk about the differences between the meat I buy in Ireland, and what you all get in the US.

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First of all, we have a national quality standard.

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Secondly – dude! I can go to this farm and meet your man, if I want to. His name, his address, is right there on the package of steaks.

The provenance is always listed on non-processed food – not only meat, but fruits and vegetables. It makes me wonder why the US can’t, or won’t, do the same for their food. Wouldn’t you like to know that you are buying potatoes from Israel when you live in Idaho?

New…Art?

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It’s been yonks since I did anything creative.

Oh: yonks is Irish slang around here for ‘a long time, probably too long.’

Recently – okay a month ago, or longer – I had the time, and the iPad, and a strange enviro men in which to play. Probably about 15 minutes.

I need to play more often, I miss it.

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