Wing and a prayer

When it comes to foods, the Melissa stomach has an open door policy. All comers are welcome.

Dear ol' Ma likes to tell folks how I was a picky eater when I was wee pup. She'd stir up some mashed peas, pickled pears or whatever else those schmucks at Gerber Baby Products were peddling, and airplane the spoon down my throat. However, before you could say "pureed asparagus in applesauce" I delivered Ma's idea of dinner on the high-chair tray, or her shirt when the meal was especially "tasty."

It took years to cultivate my taste buds. I had to grow them like a luscious flower garden. I had to endure Dear Ol' Ma's fettish for liver and onions, which still traumatizes me when I spot a slab of cow liver at the store; her affinity for split pea soup wilted the buds during the winter; and any dish with brussel sprouts befouled my well-toned tasters for the next week. However, Dear Ol' Ma's meatloaf, stuffed bell peppers, cabbage rolls and spaghetti in meat sauce were the elixirs that brought my buds to full bloom. Then again, you could drench vanilla ice cream with her marinara and the dessert would taste infinitely better.

I credit her for starving the picky right out of tummy, because if I didn't like that liver strap she was passing off for dinner, I was stuck. "I'm not running a restaurant here. You don't like it, ya little runt, then go pull some bark of that there pine tree and eat that for supper." I'd choose the liver, but it was always a tough decision.

Some nights, after tipping the wine box back a bit too much, she'd dump enough chilli powder and jalapenos into her chili to scorch the pan and set our guts on fire. Our mouths were smoldering infernos and our asses were flame throwers, but damn it was good.

I'm masochistic when it comes to food, the more pain I'm in from esophagus to anus the better the meal. And the only meals that can produce such a euphoric feeling in "The Factory" (my affectionate name for the tummy, also known as "The Boiler Room") are those lethally spicy concoctions.

I wasn't like this six or seven years ago. I weighed the risk and considered the consequences before allowing a jalapeno to roll down my gullet. I kept my drink within arms reach, elbow cocked ready to swing the cool liquid up in one fluid motion if there was a hint of heat attached to the pepper. Then I moved to Arizona where everything comes with hot sauce, jalapenos, habaneros and ortega chilis. Even the baby food aisle at the store sells pureed cilantro in picante sauce. If you order a dish mild at a Mexican Restaurant, the server calls the cops who take you to a prison bus that whisks other wussy eaters up north to Flagstaff because those tree-huggin' hippies can't handle spicy foods, either. They're more into leafy herbs.

One of my favorites has been buffalo wings because I like to eat healthy (and nothing says healthy than a wing slathered in spicy sauce). I tell the server to bring 'em to me "ass-burning hot," and I'm often disappointed. After draining the bucket I may be able to light a candle or two with my breathe, but that's it. Most places' hot is luke warm.

I met my match last night, however. We went downtown to see brother of our friend Marc - Kirk Buckhout - perform stand-up comedy at the Hidden House. We arrived early to partake in the bar's 6$ steak Wednesday, however, with me not being particulary carnivorous for steak, I went with the appetizer menu and the buffalo wings. Their menu has four seperate ways to order the wings: mild for you pansy asses, medium for those who like the thought of pain but are too afraid to experience the hurt, hot for those with stainless-steel guts, and finally "hooeeeee!" for the daredevils. I went with the "hooeeeee!"

Le me just say: "hooo-frickin'-eeeee!"

The first two went down without a problem. The wings had pop, but I didn't let that stop me. I devoured the next one, which was well layered in sauce, and I couldn't get to my Coors Light fast enough. The Hidden House wings had my buds' attention. They quickly earned my respect.

With the fire smoldering after plowing through a bushel of cellery and burying my head in a vat of ranch dressing, I went for the wings again. My nose hairs curled from the heat and I had to use my jacket to smother the flames on Wife's pants after I said a breathy "hooeee" when asked about the wings.

Three at a time was my max. Then the buds needed a beer break. They gave me a dozen wings and I nearly went through a beer a set to stave off my dragon breathe, which could ignite the barstools. It's a good thing Coors Light is nine parts water and one part barley and hopps because if there was more alcohol I'd be a walking weapon of mass destruction. Stick a match by my butt and watch me launch at North Korea.

I felt triumphant after the last wing. I thrust my arms to the sky, fists clenched, and screamed "hooeee," spraying spittle sparks that descended to the Hidden House's well-worn carpet. Everywhere around tiny fires erupted and I doused the flames with the rest of my Coors Light before the Phoenix Fire Department was called to the scene.

It wasn't until the next morning that "The Factory" called up to the brain and said there was a problem with the boiler. The message said it was overheating and "The Factory" workers must open the flue to allow the cinders and ash from the wings to sift their way out of the boiler. And while I spent most of the morning contemplating my daredevil ways regarding food on the most comfortable seat at work - it just so happens to be in the men's room, go figure - I came to the conclusion that maybe "The Factory" workers don't enjoy spreading molten bits of buffalo wings along the factory floor. Which is fine, I don't really like the flue being opened three times in an hour.

On the other hand, if I can turn my ass into a human candle, well, then, keep the "hooeee!" buffalo wings a-comin'.