Spicy Baked BBQ Chicken Wings

I started looking for a therapist. Not casually — methodically, the way I approach everything. I made a spreadsheet. (I made a spreadsheet for finding a therapist. Kevin would roast me for this.) Columns: name, credentials, specialties, location, insurance accepted, reviews. I filtered for therapists in Seattle who specialize in adoption issues. The list was short — maybe fifteen people. I further filtered for therapists who understand transracial adoption specifically, and the list dropped to four. One of them is Korean-American. Her name is Dr. Yoon. She has a private practice in the Central District. Her website says she specializes in "identity development for adult adoptees, with a focus on the intersection of race, culture, and belonging." I read that sentence and felt a door open somewhere inside me — a door I didn't know was there, behind the compliance and the gratitude and the good-Asian programming that has kept me functional but unfulfilled for twenty-two years.

I didn't call yet. I wrote down her number. I put it on a Post-it note on my refrigerator, next to the H Mart receipt and the Duolingo streak screenshot (fifty-six days). The Post-it is a commitment device — a behavioral economics trick I learned in a psych class at UW. If the number is visible, I'll call. If it's buried in a spreadsheet, I won't. The Post-it is bright yellow. Dr. Yoon's number is written in black Sharpie. It stares at me every morning when I open the fridge for kimchi.

In the meantime, cooking. This week I made Korean fried chicken — KFC, as the internet calls it, a dish that has become globally famous and that I've eaten at restaurants but never made. The recipe is more complex than American fried chicken: the chicken is double-fried (fried once to cook through, rested, fried again to crisp the exterior), then tossed in a sauce of gochujang, soy sauce, garlic, ginger, and honey. The double-fry technique is genius — it creates an exterior so crispy it shatters when you bite into it, while the interior stays juicy. The sauce — sweet, spicy, sticky — coats every piece in a glossy red shell.

I made a mess. The frying spit oil on the stovetop, the counter, my forearms (two small burns, acceptable casualties). The kitchen smelled like a restaurant for two days afterward, which my neighbor probably noticed and probably has opinions about. But the chicken was spectacular. I ate it on the couch, shattering crispy bits onto my shirt, licking sauce off my fingers, and felt the pure, uncomplicated joy of eating something delicious that you made yourself. Not every meal needs to be a meditation on identity. Sometimes the fried chicken is just fried chicken, and the joy is just joy.

Work was routine — code reviews, bug fixes, the incremental daily labor of maintaining a production system. I'm noticing that my relationship to work is shifting. Six months ago, work was everything — my identity, my purpose, the thing that made me Stephanie rather than Baby Girl #4719. Now it's one thing among several. Important, but not all. The cooking has carved out space for another identity, another competence, another source of pride that doesn't depend on a performance review or a promotion cycle. I'm more balanced. I'm also more distracted, thinking about gochujang ratios during code reviews, but the distraction is the productive kind — the kind that comes from a life that has more than one dimension.

Saturday: I brought Korean fried chicken to Bellevue. Karen's eyes went wide when she bit into a piece — the crunch, the sauce, the heat. She said, "Stephanie, this is restaurant-quality." It might be the best compliment she's ever given me. David ate four pieces and said nothing, which is David's version of four stars. Kevin FaceTimed during dinner and I held up a piece of chicken to the camera and he said, "You're killing me, Steph." I said, "Come visit. I'll make it for you." He said, "Maybe next month." Maybe. With Kevin, maybe is better than no, and no is better than silence, and we're past the years of silence, so maybe feels like a gift.

Dr. Yoon's number is still on the fridge. I'll call Monday. I've decided. Monday. The Post-it has done its job. The door is open. I just need to walk through.

The Korean fried chicken I made that week was a revelation — the double-fry, the gochujang glaze, the satisfying shatter of a well-crisped wing — but what stayed with me wasn’t the technique. It was the feeling: sauce on my fingers, crumbs on my shirt, pure uncomplicated joy. If you want that same sticky, spicy, glossy-coated experience without the two-round fry and the oil burns on your forearms, these Spicy Baked BBQ Chicken Wings deliver it. Same heat, same sweetness, same “I made this and it’s spectacular” energy — oven-baked, weeknight-friendly, and absolutely worth licking your fingers over.

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

Ingredients

2 lbs chicken wings, split at the joint, tips removed
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
2/3 cup BBQ sauce
2 tablespoons hot sauce (such as sriracha or Frank’s RedHot)
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon garlic, minced
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes (adjust to heat preference)

Instructions

Preheat oven. Preheat your oven to 425°F. Line a large rimmed baking sheet with foil and place a wire rack on top. Lightly coat the rack with nonstick spray.
Dry and season wings. Pat the chicken wings thoroughly dry with paper towels — this is the key to a crispy exterior. In a large bowl, toss the wings with baking powder, salt, garlic powder, smoked paprika, and black pepper until evenly coated.
Arrange and bake. Spread wings in a single layer on the prepared rack, making sure they are not touching. Bake for 25 minutes, then flip each wing and bake for an additional 15–20 minutes, until the skin is deeply golden and crisp.
Make the spicy BBQ glaze. While the wings bake, whisk together the BBQ sauce, hot sauce, honey, soy sauce, minced garlic, and red pepper flakes in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Stir until combined and warmed through, about 3–4 minutes. Remove from heat.
Glaze the wings. Transfer the baked wings to a large bowl. Pour the spicy BBQ glaze over the top and toss until every piece is thoroughly coated in the sticky, glossy sauce.
Serve. Return glazed wings to the rack and bake for an additional 3–5 minutes to set the sauce, or serve immediately. Garnish with sliced scallions or sesame seeds if desired.

Nutrition (per serving)

Spicy Baked BBQ Chicken Wings — The Joy That’s Just Joy