My little cookies, I must confess something about myself to you.
When I was little, I had a problem, or perhaps “obsession” would be the better word. I have mentioned the deep, all-consuming love I had for potatoes as a child a few times before, and I have never once exaggerated. Potatoes were my main food group between the ages of 6 and 12. I could not get enough of them. It didn’t help that I was a picky eater, so I didn’t eat much else. In the morning, I would eat a hashbrown with cheese melted on top. Then, I would come home from school and wolf down almost an entire bag of sour cream and onion potato chips (still my favorite). And for dinner: I gorged on my all time favorite cheese fries from Giovanni’s Pizza, the incredible pizzeria I was so blessed to live within walking distance from as a kid.
Whether it be mashed potatoes, hashbrowns, or potato pancakes, I ate every food involving potatoes to satiate my starch cravings. However, my true achilles heel was french fries. At that young age, I knew of no love stronger than the one I harbored for french fries. I would make a meal out of them, eating ungodly large piles in one sitting. They were just so good. (Would you be shocked if I told you I went through a pudgy stage right around this time?)
Eventually, my dad rationed me to only eating fries twice a week, in the hopes of working some other food groups into my system. This was a crushing blow, but perhaps for the better. Nowadays, I eat much healthier (not to mention, I lost the pudge). My diet consists of many more health-conscious choice and a lot loss french fries. But I’ve got to say, they are still one of my absolute favorite foods.
When I choose to indulge, I still love to scarf down some fries. There’s just something so impeccably addicting about those golden, deep-fried suckers that lures me in every time. If you offer me fries, I could muster up a serious amount of strength and force myself to pass them up, but as soon as I eat one, I’m a goner.