Rachel here.
The other night John made hot wings. Deeeelicious as they were, he made enough for an army larger than two and so we found ourselves not with a few leftover, but a ton. While we both have a thing for hot wings (this may be the secret to our successful partnership), this leftovers thing was a new problem.
No joke. We have never not eaten all of our hot wings. Never.
We entertained the idea of just continuing to eat them for days on end, but both felt intrigued by the idea of trying to innovate a little with our leftovers. And so we concocted hot wing chicken salad.
We peeled the chicken from the bones (umm...this was tedious), diced up some celery and then mashed it all together with blue cheese dressing. Piling mountains onto squishy buns, we sat down certain that we had just created the greatest thing since chocolate ice cream (ok, I thought it was the greatest thing since chocolate ice cream...John probably was thinking of some other food, though, since he is simply unable to do the things to ice cream that I effortlessly endeavor).
We hadn't.
Everything was fine except that we both found ourselves feeling like we were eating these giant piles of mush. Maybe it was the buns (these were like, I don't know, little fluffy buttery clouds), or maybe we should have made the celery crunch more prominent. Maybe we needed another flavor--onions came to mind for both of us independently. While we maintain that the idea is certainly not at fault, the missing piece eludes us.
I guess we'll just have to give it another go around the next time there's a giant tupperware of leftover chicken wings in the fridge...you know, if that ever happens again in our lives.
