Buffalo Wings Clipped?… Try Kalahogies this Super Bowl.
The widespread national panic over the fear of a chicken wing shortage may indeed be self-fulfilling. Hoards of “wingers” are storming grocers, lining up hours before store openings, even stalking loading docks of Sam’s Costco and Walmart. Major corporate chicken farms have reportedly been victims of midnight raids by marauding Super Bowl fans bent on having their wings and eating them too. In the rural South reports of broad-daylight chicken snatchings from back and front yards have been witnessed by locals.
Folks, there’s a better way. Forgot the “Buffalo Wing.”
As we slouch toward Super Bowl Sunday let us fore go the boring Buffalo Wing and masticate on the oral delights of Faux Calamari, or better known as Kalahogies. Faux, or fake calamari is similar to the artificial seafood crab stuff at the deli counter. It is the perfect Super Bowl snack made of real pork (the other white meat, right?) Real calamari, as we all know are those tasty little white chewy rings of battered and fried squid. Faux calamari, popularly known as Kalahogies, are little rings of chewy hog rectums, battered and fried to delicious nutritious chewiness. Boil them first until soft, then grill or deep fry slathered in spicy barbecue sauce. Serve and chew by the dozen. You’ll never go back to Buffalo.
With apologies to William Butler Yeats’ “The Second Coming.”:
“The Second Helping”
Turning & burning on the broiling gyre
The chicken cannot but fear the
Wings fall part, the skin cannot
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The buffalo-wing shortage is loosed
The half-time ceremony of
has-been rock stars
Is drowned out by beer commercials.
The best commercials lack all conviction
While the worst are full of
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely a Second Helping is at hand.
The Second Helping! Hardly are Those words out
When a vast image of Barbequedis Porcina-rectumus
Eases my sight: somewhere in Lands of the dessert
A shape with hog body and the Head of a chicken
A glaze sticky and hot and pitiless As the sun,
Is dripping slowly down my chin While all about it
Real sad howls of the indignant
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That XLVII Super Bowls of boring
Were hexed to indigestion by the chili ladle
And what rough beast, its rectum well done at last,
Slouches towards the two minute
warning to be eaten?