The Texas Renaissance Festival in Plantersville, Texas, opened its gates for the first time in 1974—50 years ago now. My own first visit was in 1977 when I was seven years old. Seven was a big year for me; a lot changed in my life, some of it for the better, some for the worse. The biggest event that year was my father beginning to build our “family home” in Magnolia, Texas, not far from the Renaissance Festival grounds. "Family home" means different things to different people, of course. We moved in by 1978 and left by 1983, but that’s beside the point. The point is, we lived close by for a while, and every weekend the Faire was open, we were there.

My parents didn’t necessarily love it, especially not my father. For him, it was mainly a great place to entertain clients and their families, to show them a good time. He was a fantastic salesman and knew how to make people feel comfortable. If a client was on the fence about giving him a contract, he’d win over their families, sealing the deal. Honestly, the man had balls the size of horse turds.

I have no idea how my mother felt about the Faire. I only have one memory of her connected to it, and that didn’t technically happen until we were on our way home one night. Back then, the Faire attracted all kinds of mobile vendors. If there was a patch of level ground, someone would park a truck or set up a booth and sell just about anything. Imagine a food truck park, throw in a bunch of hippies, and then add a sprinkle of chaos—that’s about right. They sold wooden swords, rocks, macramé, beads, T-shirts with iron-on transfers, caricatures, face-painting, and, of course, tattoos. Basically, anyone who couldn’t afford a spot inside the Faire did their thing outside.

Anyway, one night, my mom—who was drunker than Cooter Brown—decided she wanted a tattoo. This was back when tattoos still carried some edge, symbolizing rebellion and a big middle finger to conformity. I guess that’s why she chickened out in the end; my mom wasn’t exactly wired for defying convention. Most of her defiance bandwidth had been spent on my dad.

At nine, I was mortified, naturally, thinking my mother might get a tattoo in the parking lot of Henry’s Hideout. I was raised to be conventional. Thank God it didn’t take or I might have ended up with a stable retirement savings and a dull, high-paying career instead of doing this on the internet. Where’s the fun in that?

The Renaissance Festival was a magical place for me growing up. It was an escape from the trials of adolescence. I know, I know—what did I have to “escape” from at that age? But trust me, kids don’t end up as food bloggers in their fifties if everything was all "Ward and June" growing up. For me, the best part was the freedom. Once we entered the gates, my parents would give me a time and place to meet up later, and then I was on my own. With $20 in my pocket, I’d go off to explore. The money usually only lasted an hour or so, though—food, drinks, and the “artisanal” goods sold by the hippies weren’t cheap. I can’t remember a single durable good I ever bought at the Faire, but I remember the turkey legs and, eventually, the egg rolls (added sometime in the mid ‘80s).

Back then, you could count on four classic “RenFaire” foods: turkey legs (so we could all pretend to be Henry VIII), sausage on a stick (because nothing says “we care” like selling pointy sticks to drunk people), candy apples (more sticks, now for the kids), and apple dumplings. I bought a candy apple once and learned the hard way it was mostly apple, very little candy, and a magnet for bees. Never made that mistake again. I tried an apple dumpling once too—mostly sour, overcooked apple—at least the bees didn’t care for it.

I hated sausage as a kid, so turkey legs were my go-to. I loved them, tendons and all. I felt like a king gnawing on those things. These days, though, I won’t touch them. If I’m going to drop $19 on a turkey leg, it had better cook, chew, and swallow itself. Seriously, for the cost of a single smoked turkey leg at the Faire, you could get a ten-pound turkey with two legs (not including admission and parking).

I could tell you RenFaire stories all day, and maybe someday I will—probably in a video. But this is a food blog, so let’s talk about food.

Mrs. Otherdamncook and I spend every "All Hallows Eve" weekend at the Faire; it’s our anniversary tradition. She loves it, and it works for me because it means she gets whatever she wants for our anniversary, sparing me the agony of gift shopping. After 24 years, it’s hard to be original.

This year, since I’m a "big time" food blogger now, I decided to focus on edibles. Not those kinds of edibles, cheeky monkeys—just stuff I can eat or cook with. Mrs. Otherdamncook was a great guide, steering me to all the right booths, and I actually came away with a couple of good finds.

First up was a spicy chow-chow. For those unfamiliar, chow-chow is essentially a sweet-and-sour relish made from chopped veggies about to go bad, pickled with sugar and vinegar. In my memory, it’s usually cauliflower-based, but there aren’t any strict rules. It’s great on a sandwich, and as you might have guessed, I’m on a bit of a sandwich kick right now.

We found the chow-chow at a booth right after I’d had my usual bratwurst and beer breakfast. Mrs. Otherdamncook also picked up a big jar of fig jam. Ironically, we bought this house partly for the three huge fig trees out back, which used to produce enough figs for us to make our own jam. Now they’re dead, and we’re spending $100 just to buy jam at the Faire.

The other thing I picked up was whipped habanero honey. I’ve been fascinated by it ever since I first tasted it. Back in 1999, habaneros were the “world’s hottest pepper,” according to the Guinness Book of World Records. These days, they’re just a fruity, spicy pepper that pairs beautifully with honey, peaches, or mangoes. Not much of a threat—until the next day, anyway.

I bought a pound of this whipped honey for $20, and it’s worth every penny. Seven-year-old me would’ve been stuck for hours without food or drink, but it built character—a character who now knows what to do with spicy honey. Enter baked chicken wings.

OK, fine, air-fried wings. “Air frying” is basically just a marketing euphemism for “bullshit.”

I’ve been experimenting with wings in my convection oven. Last time, they came out a bit dry and flavorless because I overcooked them and didn’t properly season them. This time, I tried something different. First, I “vacuum-brined” them.

I’d bought the wings before work and tossed them in the fridge, intending to cook them later. When I finally remembered, it was almost dinnertime, and I wasn’t feeling the hamburgers we’d planned. So, I vacuum-brined the wings with kosher salt, ginger, garlic, black pepper, and red pepper flakes. Usually, I’d brine overnight, but the vacuum chamber let me speed things up.

While the wings baked, I made a sauce with soy sauce, habanero honey, fresh garlic, and mirin, just heating it enough to melt the honey. Once the wings were done, I tossed them in the sauce over high heat, until it thickened and clung to the wings. They turned out perfectly—crispy skin, juicy meat, and a sauce that held on like a desperate lover. The bones came out easily, and the flavor was spot on.

One day, I’ll post a formal recipe, but I need to test it a few more times to be sure it’s repeatable.

Sorry, I have standards.