“Dad, what are buffalo wings?” I asked, peering over the plastic basket lined with greasy, checkered wax paper. It was Friday afternoon and this was our tradition. My Dad would pick me up from school every other Friday to stay with him, and we would always start the weekend off at Dollies in Kahana to play Pac-Man and eat Buffalo Wings.
“Buffalo wings are the wings from buffalos.” He said matter-of-factly.
“Dad!” I shrieked and looked up from the scab on my knee. I was 7 years old, almost old enough to know when my Dad was pulling my leg. “Buffalos don’t have wings!”
“Yes they do. They are born with wings. Little tiny buffalo wings, they’re very cute.” He said with a smile.
“Well, I’ve never seen a buffalo with wings before.” To be honest, growing up on Maui, I had never really seen a buffalo at all.
“Of course you’ve never seen a buffalo with wings, they cut them off when they’re babies. Does this look like a wing from an adult buffalo? No way, that would be way too big for us to eat. It wouldn’t even fit on a plate.” He held up a buttery red hot wing between his fingers for me to examine before biting into it and adding the bones to the growing pile. “Aren’t you going to eat yours?”
I looked at the basket skeptically before shaking my head and deciding to nibble on a celery stick. “No thanks,” I said. Whatever these “buffalo wings” really were I didn’t want to be a part of it. [Read more...]