You might not be able to tell from this doctored photo that the teriyaki wings were a little drippy, a little greasy.
(Oh, hell, they look like they are sitting on an oil slick off Bobby Jindal's back yard.)
They weren't finished cooking.
Let me tell you a story about domestic harmony. When Cranky thinks the wings are done and I think they aren't, they are done. Even if they aren't. And they weren't. Cranky got his way, and then I got mine when the chicken went back into the oven. To finish cooking, because they weren't done, Cranky. Even if you were hungry!
They went back into the oven (Cranky had also decided he would lower the temperature for some reason), and they got better.
We ate a plateful of them, but there were leftovers (because Cranky thinks the proper amount of meat for a meal is too much).
Oh. Um. Snippy?
No, forgive me if I sound... snippy.
We ate the leftover wings today and they were superior. Better. Improved.
Whereas I was never going to eat this meal again, now I am.