So I'm sitting here at work feeling very alone and unhappy. It promises to be a very long day for a lot of reasons, not the least of which being that I'm working on a Nemeth Braille proofreading course and I truly despise it. So I'll be here until 8:00 tonight, spending my valuable after-work time doing this nutty course. And it will all be for naught if the Unified English Braille Code comes in, wiping Nemeth off the Canadian braille landscape. But what can you do? If I wanted a raise in salary I had to learn this crap, so learn it I will. But I don't have to like it. I've got until September to finish this junk.
Sorry, everyone. If you were looking for an upbeat post, this ain't it. Don't worry, I don't get this down just from stupid Nemeth braille courses, so I won't be ranting every time I have to do something I don't want to do.
One of the most wondrous gifts God has given humanity is the potato. If I had to pick one food item for which I am most grateful, amid a sea of yummy dead animals, delicious grains, nuts, fruits, rabbit food, I'd have to pick teh potato as the most significant.
A sadly-nutritionally-lacking product of the potato is the French Fry. Wonderful invention, a human creation born of a Godly one.
When I grew up, that's what French Fries (Freedom Fries, if you must) were: potatoes cut up, dipped in grease, served up on a plate with ketchup, maybe on a paper towel to absorb the excess grease. Simple enough, right? Delicious.
But there's always been a need to make fries crispier and crispier. I thought the best way to do it was to make the outside of the fries just slightly charred. Crispy on the outside, tender on the inside. I actually like the taste of burned fries when, as with everything else, eaten in moderation.
But the nineties saw a need to add batter to fries. Gone are the French Fries that taste like, you know potatoes. Now if you can't taste flour on a French Fry, it's not crispy enough. It ain't right. I want plain and simple, yummy-greasy fries, not floury dough with half a gram of potato in it.
That's why a really special treat for me, whenever I visit my mom, is homemade fries, under my supervision. I hear the potatoes being cut. If they just came out of the garden that morning, even better. I hear the batter not being added, the potatoes not being modified or altered as they're thrown into the deep-fryer for that extra-healthy grease touch. It's a magical assault of sound and smell, and later of indescribably fresh flavor. The French Fry the way nature intended: pure, unadulterated, untainted, undisturbed, unmarred, unblemished, un-, and this is the important part, battered. O French Fry of yesteryear, I salute you.