Name: Hash #1113 National Chicken Wing Appreciation Day Hash
Location: Started at Kreuzplatz, ended in a dubious, dark wood
Hares: Christian Harlot and Grab My Sack
RA: Asphalt Liquor
Scribe: Just Nina
Expecting idyllic spring weather, Christian Harlot wished to honour this momentous day by providing the Hash with chicken wings grilled out in the wilds. Her Co-Hare, Grab My Sack, led the runners up a steep trail to a secret mystery location whilst the secret chicken team ferried supplies up the mountain, foraged for booze in the wilderness of Denner, and prepared to light the fire.
It was cold. Very cold.
It started to snow.
The runners arrived at the end of the trail before the fire was lit, and there were a few desperate attempts to light strips of cardboard with magical invocations before the wood arrived. Everyone huddled around pitifully until the flames rose high.
It continued to snow. The alcohol, being stored in an icy trough of water, was also very cold. Despite the RA’s best efforts to detach people from the new and beautiful and warm and golden and shiny and WONDERFUL fire, the Circle was formed around it, as it proved both physiologically and psychologically impossible for people to move more than a foot away from it. It was warm. Not like the snow.
At one point during the numerous down downs, the chicken song was sung. This seemed appropriate. Shamefully, several of the hashers on one side of the circle refused to participate in this culturally significant ritual and managed to look vaguely uncomfortable and embarrassed.
By this point, snow had blanketed everything around us, including benches, bags, and any hashers foolish enough to have wandered off. In the meantime, chicken wings had been expertly tended to by Smoking Cock, and only occasionally fallen into the fire. Once ready, they were devoured voraciously. With a variety of sauces. This may have been very messy, and there was a period of silence broken only by moans, grunts and slobbering noises. Then the second round. Then the third. Then the… I lost count, there was a vast quantity of delicious wings.
Eventually the beer was drunk, the wings were gone, and the increasing risk of hypothermia drove even the most dedicated hashers home.
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