Barbecued chicken wings

I wanted to take something delicious to the Sustainable Farming Association potluck Saturday. Once, because I forgot that a farm tour also included a potluck, I arrived with a bag of potato chips that I bought at a gas station. I am still trying to live down the shame of it. These potlucks are a showcase of delicious homegrown foods like organic sausage and expertly cooked heirloom beans and pickled beets and freshly baked bread.

We sold almost all of our chicken from the past season, but we still had a few packages of wings down in the freezer. I found a promising barbecue wing recipe that I could cook in the crockpot, so I rose early on Saturday morning and started to stir up an exciting concoction, even breaking out the cooking wine and the Worcestershire sauce. Right before I had to leave to teach my fitness class, I popped the top on the pot and predicted that it would be ready just in time.

When I returned a couple hours later, I opened the door of my home and inhaled deeply to gauge the progress of the wings. At exactly this point, my morning sickness kicked in. The smell of barbecue inhabited my home like an ogre, and I stood in the doorway aghast, wondering whether I should just go back outside. I knew that the wings probably smelled good to any normal person, but I'm no longer a normal person. I am hacking my way through the first trimester of pregnancy. A strong smell is almost enough to defeat me.

I made myself enter the house and act pleasant, but I was almost relieved to hear that my daughter had woken up with a terrible headache and was still in bed upstairs. I tore upstairs to see her, and as I expected, the smell was not strong up there. While I was allegedly comforting my daughter, I was really working up the nerve to go back downstairs.

Finally, I felt strong enough to face down my enemy. I made my way down the steps with a determined smile, and my husband suggested that I check on the wings because the potluck time would soon be upon us. He did not realize what he was asking me to do. Still, I felt that I was the best person for the job, so I approached the pot, breathing through my mouth to bypass my whole sense of smell. Then, as I stood before my slow cooker, a little bit of the odor sneaked past my defenses and set my mouth watering so much that I wondered if I should run to the bathroom.

The crisis passed. With trepidation, I opened the lid and dipped a spoon into the mass of saucy wings. They actually look pretty good. I set one on a plate and cut into it with a fork. Then I picked it up and bit it. It was fabulous. I dished about five more wings onto my plate and lit into them, thankful that I cooked up such a full pot. Once my stomach had some good food in it, the nausea evaporated, and the barbecue smell was no problem.

I stayed home from the Sustainable Farming Association meeting and potluck to take care of our sick daughter, but my husband reported that many people helped themselves to seconds from our crockpot. He thought my wings were the best thing there.

I think this is a good sign. Right now, with this pregnancy, I am stuck in a haze of nausea, uncertainty, and even dread. However, I believe that I will eventually make my way through to the meat of the situation, and when I do, I will tear into it with gusto.