French Fries

Tonight I was driving home after a long day. I was hungry and tired and as usual had no food at home. It was also a day of much, very much, thinking about Tom.

All elements, tired, sad, hungry, no food plan meant only one option: MacDonald's. And even worse, it meant Big Mac and medium fries. As I was driving home food in hand I realized that NEVER until I met Tom did I eat fries in my house. We ate plenty at home during my decades with Tom, but since he died I have reverted to never eating fries at home again.

"Revert"? Interesting word choice. That is because the reason I don't eat fries at home is because I inhale them about 12 seconds after I get them from the drive through. No idea why I ask for ketchup because the only thing left of the fries when I get home is the grease on my fingers. And to be clear: even the fries that fell out in the bottom of the bag were gone. Tonight as I drove home, all fries gone before I turned in my neighborhood I remembered how Tom had such a strong feeling that it was improper to eat fries on the way home.

Sometimes I got lucky and could sneak a few fries if he ran in to get a lottery ticket but otherwise I was hosed until we got home, sat down, poured some water, and unpacked.

Today, months and months later, I have firmly decided that fat tastes good, and hotter fat tastes better than cooler fat. If you can drive safely and eat your fries, nod to Heaven and tell Tom I said it was ok. My guess is he won't argue with you.