They gave me the fries.
I didn’t want them but they gave them to me.
Now, they are staring at me. They are taunting me because they know I find them beautiful.
Crinkly fries are the best.
They have crunch, color and taste.
I had made the allowance that I would eat the burger but I didn’t want the fries.
The waitress didn’t listen.
Now, the fries are looking at me and singing their temptation song.
After a week of protein shake breakfasts and dinners, lunch is my only hot food meal.
The burger was going to be my Friday indulgence and as indulgences go it is doing the trick.
Damn the cursed fries and their impromptu appearance on my plate.
I need them to take this plate away, but I’m still eating my burger.
Idahoans have it right. They know the value of a spud. They know how powerful the spherical potato is in bringing down a good food choice.
These fries on my plate look like they have just emerged from the tanning salon with a deep golden hue and a warmth to them that renders them relaxed on my plate.
They are each so pretty that they should be wearing spa robes.
This realization brings me back from my Oreida stupor.
I can’t wear the ‘one size fits most’ robe at the Spa. It doesn’t fit around my body and one of the reasons for this are these devils fingers on my plate.
I start yelling from my table – ‘Take the plate away! Take the plate away! I can’t eat these friiiiieeeeeesssss! I am Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment screaming at hospital nurses dressed like waitresses.
I make a scene.
The fries go away.
I don’t eat them, but they stay on the table long enough to take a selfie.
Someday, ‘one size fits most’ will fit me.
I will be part of the most because I ate less…