For whatever reason, I'm all about the chicken these days.
There's a wonderful purveyor of spit-roasted chickens of the desirable type (local, free-range, tasty) at our farmers market, so we often get a whole or a half bird and save ourselves the trouble (and frequent doom) of roasting it ourselves.
But I'm getting my chicken mojo. I am. Chicken wings.
Nothing new here; I've talked about them before. But I discovered the amusing thing about roasting teeny, petite wings: They take as long to cook as a whole bird!
Anecdote: I once interviewed a marvelous artist for a story. She makes miniature ceramic vessels (teapots, urns), as detailed and fabulous as "real" pots. I made the stupid assumption that, because of their diminutive proportions, they would spend a lot less time firing in the kiln. No! She said that it's a physical process, that the porcelain "takes as long as it takes" to get done, no matter how small.
And so with the wings. They are teeny, but they need oven time.
OK, here's what we ate. Wings coated with grated Parmesan mixed with Dijon mustard. Baked, 350ºF for an hour. So yummy. In an homage to Buffalo wings, we served celery sticks, and since there was no hot sauce on the chicken, the blue cheese dip was mixed with Frank's RedHot sauce. Wow, that worked.