Why yes, I do own a deep fryer. It's so sweet of you to notice!

I finally decided that this was the year to take the metaphorical plunge into boiling grease. For the past few Superbowls — sorry, "Big Games" — I've made buffalo wings the godawful way: deep-frying chicken wings in a pot full of peanut oil, then tossing them with a delicious mixture of butter and Texas Pete.

Although the wings usually turned out well, the process of making them was always disastrous. A combination of personal impatience, chicken wing frozen-ness and the laws of nature's unpleasant inflexibility generally resulted in a roiling mass of steam and oil clambering out of the pot and spreading itself in a thin layer over every surface in my kitchen. It was disgusting, hard to clean up, and seemed likely to eventually result in a trip to the hospital.

This, combined with Emily's sudden realization that she had a life-long aspiration to make corndogs, led us to Target last Saturday, where we considered their various deep-frying options. Most of the available fryers failed to inspire confidence. At the low-end of the market sat the chintzy Asian models, which looked like and probably were simple rice cookers with various important safety features removed. Their control dials also turned alarmingly freely, making it seem unlikely that they were connected to anything at all. At the other end of the market stood a much more expensive but even-chintzier American fryer. This one had the classic-looking rectangular basket and some impressively substantial knobs. But the rest of the device seemed pretty crappily made, like poorly-considered component of a PlaySkool fast-food-themed set of toys that had been hastily recalled, rebadged and resold.

That left just one remaining option, which was a little bit of a gamble since there was no display model. But ultimately the Friteuse En Huile Profonde seemed like the best idea. "They were right about Iraq, after all," I thought. "Maybe they'll be right about frying, too."

Sadly, upon returning home we discovered that the fryer was actually Canadian in origin. Other deficiencies became apparent, too: there was no temperature control, leaving aspiring fryers just one setting ("poutine") with which to work.

But overall the device didn't disappoint. We made some french fries and they were good (although not as crispy as would've been ideal). Then we trekked over to the flophouse for the Superbowl and made some corndogs and wings. The corndogs were a huge success, but the wings were a little lacking — I didn't fry them as long as I should've, and the result was slightly soggy. Also, they left the wires of the frying basket covered in a disconcerting brown substance. It's probably just miscellaneous chicken gunk (their souls, maybe?), but it could also be that Giant adds chemicals to their chicken wings ("18% broth by volume!") that can induce stainless steel to rust.

Unfortunately, that's all the frying I've done since making the purchase. The oil was still too hot at the game's conclusion for the fryer to be moved. Besides, Spencer expressed some interest in becoming the fryer's foster father. It's for the best — as a single parent, I simply couldn't provide the sort of environment where a deep-fat fryer could really blossom. It'll ultimately be better off residing in a household where a lot of people care deeply for it — and don't mind every item they own smelling like french fries.