Parmesan Chicken Wings

The summer before Marcus leaves. Every meal is weighted. Every dinner carries the knowledge that the table is about to change — not shrink, exactly, because Marcus will always have a place, but CHANGE, the way a choir changes when a voice leaves: the harmony adjusts, the other voices fill the space, the song continues but the sound is different. I am cooking his favorites without being asked. He knows. He eats without commenting on the pattern. We are two people who love each other and are pretending that August isn't coming, and the pretending is its own kind of meal: filling, temporary, necessary.

Curtis is adjusting to the wheelchair. "Adjusting" is generous — he is tolerating the wheelchair the way he tolerates everything he can't control: with vocal displeasure and practical compliance. He wheels himself to the elevator, rides to the kitchen, parks at the table, and eats. He complains about the wheelchair the way Mama complained about her chemo: daily, specifically, without allowing it to stop her. The complaining is the coping. The eating is the living. Both continue.

Set the Table summer program: a new initiative. Two weeks of intensive cooking for girls who can't attend Saturday sessions during the school year. Twelve girls, every day for two weeks, a full curriculum that Diamond designed (Diamond! Designing curriculum! The girl who didn't speak for two classes is now designing curriculum and I am not crying I am just seasoning aggressively). The intensive produced remarkable results: twelve girls who walked in barely knowing how to boil water walked out making full dinners. One girl — Keyana, fourteen — made Mama's fried chicken on the last day and it was GOOD and I said, "You have hands," and the words came out before I could think and the words were Mama's and the words will always be Mama's and I will keep saying them to every girl who deserves to hear them.

Keyana’s fried chicken on that last day of intensive knocked something loose in me — the good kind of loose, the kind where you drive home with the windows down and let yourself feel it. That evening I came home and made Marcus’s wings, the Parmesan ones he’s been requesting since he was twelve, because if the words will always be Mama’s then the wings will always be his, and I am not ready to stop making them on a Tuesday for no reason except that he is still here and the table is still full and August has not arrived yet.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr | Servings: 4

Ingredients

2 lbs chicken wings, split at joints, tips removed
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/4 cup unsalted butter, melted
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon onion powder
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon dried Italian seasoning
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (optional)
Fresh parsley, chopped, for garnish
Ranch or blue cheese dressing, for serving

Instructions

Preheat and prep. Preheat oven to 425°F. Line a large rimmed baking sheet with foil and place a wire rack on top. Pat the chicken wings completely dry with paper towels — this is the step that gets you the crisp.
Season the wings. In a large bowl, whisk together the garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, Italian seasoning, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. Add the wings and toss until evenly coated.
Arrange and bake. Spread wings in a single layer on the prepared rack. Bake for 40–45 minutes, flipping once halfway through, until the skin is deep golden and crispy.
Make the Parmesan butter. While the wings finish their last 5 minutes, stir together the melted butter and grated Parmesan in a large bowl until combined.
Toss and finish. Transfer the hot wings directly into the Parmesan butter bowl and toss well to coat every surface. The cheese will cling and form a savory crust.
Serve. Pile onto a platter, scatter fresh parsley over the top, and serve immediately with ranch or blue cheese on the side.

Nutrition (per serving)

Parmesan Chicken Wings — The Ones I Make When August Is Coming