I was driving home from the Silver Comet Trail this past Saturday and was ravenous after a really long workout. Not just hungry, I’m talking, “I just spent the last four hours running and biking while day dreaming of the indecent things I’d do for fried food and a cherry pie” kind of hungry. Seriously, I’ve never made a pie in my life but probably spent twenty miles picturing one and discussing with my inner monologue how I really should have a nice pie crust in my repertoire and how I prefer a laticce pie crust, but purely for aesthetic reasons.
I remembered there is a J.R. Crickets on the way home so I called in an order for pick-up. Fifteen minutes and one impromptu spandex show the Cricket’s clientele didn’t really expect, I had my wings.
Now I know that texting while driving is illegal in Georgia, but there is no law I can find that touches on the topic of scarfing down saucy hot wings at stop lights. Though, the people in the car next to you might think you a savage. Mind your own business lady, I’m wingin’ over here!
Good wings actually. They were extra crispy with tons of sauce, which seemed to be the classic Frank’s/butter fifty-fifty combination. They remind me of Jamal’s a little in terms of size/texture. Not quite as good as those though. I think big old Barry Bonds hot wings are overrated as they are often rubbery. It’s all about balancing the amount of crispy skin, hot sauce, and chicken.
I finished the box before I hit my neighborhood, a mixed look of shame and pleasure visible in my rear view.