Plates of Strangers

It's a difficult relationship, fries and me. They are my desert island food (nutrition notwithstanding, and even then it's iffy). They are the first on my plate to go, they get added even when there's a surcharge. I have been known to take a friend's plate out of a server's hand so I could finish them. I have been known, in darker years, to finish them off the plates of strangers.

I am not one of those girls that says, oh, shall we split an order of fries. If I get fries will you have some, will you have some. I have never thought about the fat or the calories or the salt intake. I do not differentiate much between an expensive cone of Belgian frites and the oiliest or driest fast food cartons. Sack fries are some of the best gifts in the world. Dropped fries which you find in the morning, an army of ants lining up for the feast, is a crime. Have I dusted the ants off in a fit of desperation? No. Have I eaten them off the curb? I am not at liberty to say. (Yes.)

When I wake and I am not hungry, when my first meal is dinner, I start to worry. When I feel more for the last few crispy stragglers than I do about the fullness of my stomach, I am concerned. Addiction is a strong word. It belongs to things like alcohol, cigarettes, and eating broken glass. It becomes a silly word when given to a silly thing, and I would not do that.

I do regret. Often. I will be chewing my final bites and wondering why, wishing I wouldn't. And I tell myself, this time could be the last time, this time in fact is. And for a while, bless my heart, I even believe myself.