Ginger-Orange Wings

The first cutting of hay is six weeks out. The fields are starting to show real growth and the timing of the cut depends on the weather of the next month and a half. I drove the equipment shed Tuesday and went over the swather and the rake and the baler — greased, oiled, checked the belts and the chains, replaced the sickle blade on the swather (it had been chipped in last year's third cut and I had not gotten to it in the fall). The equipment is ready. I am ready. The hay will tell us when it is ready. The Montana rancher's relationship with his equipment is not unlike a marriage — long, requiring attention, occasionally painful, ultimately generative if you do the work.

Patrick had a fall Wednesday morning. In the bedroom. He had gotten up to use the bathroom and his hip went and he caught himself on the dresser. No break. No hit. But he could not get up alone and Mom had to call me from the bathroom door and I had to lift him into the chair in the bedroom and he was angry the way he gets angry, which is silently. We sat. Mom got him coffee. He calmed. He did not fall again the rest of the week. But the falls are coming more often and the recoveries are taking longer and the trajectory is the trajectory. I installed an additional grab bar in the bedroom Wednesday afternoon — between the bed and the door, where he could grab it on the way to the bathroom in the dark — and Patrick did not say anything about it. He used it Thursday morning. He used it Friday morning. He has been using it since. Some things you do not have to discuss. You install the grab bar. He uses it. The conversation is in the using.

I shod three horses Thursday and Friday. The work was steady. The mid-fifties days are the perfect farrier weather — cool enough to keep the horses calm, warm enough to keep the hands working, the ground firming. I made decent money this week. The medications were paid. The feed bill was paid. The propane is full. The diesel tank is full. The infrastructure of the ranch is in working order, May 2025.

Maggie is eleven weeks. Cole sent a video Wednesday of Maggie laughing at the dog they have just gotten — a young border collie mix named Tipi — and the dog is licking her foot and Maggie is laughing and Cole is filming and Tara is cackling off-screen. The video is forty seconds. Mom and I watched it twelve times. Patrick watched it three times. The third time he asked, Whose dog. I said, Cole and Tara's dog, Dad. He said, Right. The grandbaby is the grandbaby. The dog is the dog. Patrick is keeping it straight, mostly. The Tuesday confusion in February was, I am going to stop fearing, an isolated event. We have had three solid months of clarity. I am taking it.

Cooked Sunday a roast chicken with new potatoes from the cellar (the last of them) and the first asparagus from Mom's patch. The asparagus has been in the bed for thirty years. It comes up the same week every May. It is sweet and tender and grassy and it tastes like nothing else and it is, in the small range of asparagus eaters within Montana ranching families, one of the great vegetables of the year. We ate the asparagus blanched and dressed with butter and lemon and salt. Mom had made the bread. The chicken was the chicken. Patrick had a thigh and a piece of breast and four spears of asparagus. He said, This is May. I said, It is, Dad. He said, May is the right month. I said, Yeah. Saturday cookout was ten men. Marcus made two hundred twenty-eight days, almost eight months. He is going to make it to a year. We are all going to be there for it. The fire helps. The asparagus helps. The grab bar helps most of all.

The Saturday cookout was ten men and a fire and Marcus at two hundred twenty-eight days, and I needed something that could hold its own over heat and feed a crowd without fuss — something that tasted like effort without requiring me to be precious about it. These ginger-orange wings are that recipe: sharp and sticky and bright, the kind of food that disappears fast when men are standing around a fire not quite saying the things they mean. The asparagus and the chicken were Sunday’s meal, quiet and family. The wings were Saturday’s meal, and Saturday had its own weight to carry.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr | Servings: 8–10

Ingredients

4 lbs chicken wings, split at the joint, tips removed
2 tbsp olive oil
1 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp black pepper
1 tsp garlic powder
1/2 cup fresh orange juice (from about 2 large oranges)
1 tbsp orange zest
3 tbsp soy sauce
2 tbsp honey
1 tbsp fresh ginger, grated (or 1 tsp ground ginger)
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp sesame oil
1/2 tsp red pepper flakes (optional)
Sliced green onions and sesame seeds, for garnish

Instructions

Prep the wings. Pat wings completely dry with paper towels — this is what gets you the crisp. Toss with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic powder until evenly coated.
Roast. Arrange wings in a single layer on a wire rack set over a foil-lined baking sheet. Roast at 425°F for 40–45 minutes, flipping once halfway through, until the skin is golden and the edges are beginning to crisp.
Make the glaze. While wings roast, combine orange juice, orange zest, soy sauce, honey, ginger, garlic, sesame oil, and red pepper flakes in a small saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, for 8–10 minutes until the glaze thickens enough to coat a spoon.
Glaze and finish. Transfer roasted wings to a large bowl. Pour glaze over and toss to coat every piece. Return wings to the rack and roast an additional 5 minutes to set the glaze and caramelize the edges.
Rest and serve. Let the wings rest 5 minutes before transferring to a platter. Scatter green onions and sesame seeds over the top. Serve immediately around the fire.

Nutrition (per serving)

Ginger-Orange Wings — The Saturday Cookout That Helped Marcus Get to Eight Months