I love food.
As a basic human necessity, this may seem like a no-brainer, but even if I didn’t have to eat, I definitely still would. I think about food when I wake up in the morning and when I go to bed at night. Sitting behind my desk, I count the hours until lunch. My phone camera roll is full of completely non-instagramable scones and lattes and burgers.
And I don’t love food in a foodie, at all discriminating way. I love any food. The relationship is complicated but well worth it.
In her essay Joy, Zadie Smith says, “I seem to get more than the ordinary satisfaction out of food, for example—any old food. An egg sandwich from one of these grimy food vans on Washington Square has the genuine power to turn my day around. Whatever is put in front of me, foodwise, will usually get a five-star review.” Few things have resonated with me so deeply.
A picture with two of my very best friends where I couldn’t be bothered to put down my milkshake.
But perhaps the most adored of all the foods I love is the french fry (as if I could ever eat just one).
There is nothing wrong with french fries: salty, warm, crispy, potato. As far as I’m concerned, even bad fries are good fries.
French fries are the perfect way to kill time when you’re a little peckish between appointments, but it’s not technically a meal time.
French fries allow you to eat like 25 of something instead of just one.
French fries are warm and familiar after a stressful day at work.
French fries are a great excuse to leave your sad, dark, basement apartment, and then you can sit in your car parked at the curb and eat those tangible pieces of happiness as you put off going back inside.
French fries are…well, it’s possible I was using french fries in response to all emotions, including boredom.
So a couple weeks ago, I decided I should stop replacing feelings with french fries (okay, actually none of my pants fit right and I was spending so much money).
I quit cold turkey, at least to start, and let me tell you, it hasn’t been easy. There are SO MANY places you can buy fries, and they all call out to me as I drive around town.
French fries and I are Ilsa and Rick, Gatsby and Daisy, Jamie and Cathy.
I guess what I mean is, french fries and I probably shouldn’t be exclusive because my heart might literally explode, and not just with affection.
This is the last you’ll read about my withdrawals from the glory of fried potatoes, I promise, but if you see me staring at glossy pictures in magazines, and they’re actually just restaurant ads, you’ll know why.