Color my world orange.
(Can you believe Stockphoto put out their own line of chips, each one handstamped??)
My friend Miriam says she’s surprised that I like bbq potato chips. I don’t know that I like them exactly. I eat them. Umami makes me do it.
Umami, not my mommy, although my mother claims a person can survive on potato chips. After all, the potato famine would not have occurred had the Irish not become so dependent on potatoes, neglecting to grow much of anything else.
“Potatoes are a near perfect food”, claims the Idaho Potato Museum (well, they would, one would hope). And gift shop! I’ll bet they have snazzy souvenirs in there.
The US Department of Agriculture has stated that “a diet of whole milk and potatoes would supply almost all of the food elements necessary for the maintenance of the human body.” According to my professional opinion the missing elements are butter and salt. Mash em up and eat. 24/7.
Miriam adds this note,
I eat them probably if really desperate. They taste so phony with that sugar-salt thing which is most likely high fructose corn syrup.
Yes, delicious desperation. Boink! Nail on the head! And such purity of phoniness. Bingo!
I understand that bbq chips and cigarettes make a lethal combo, something to crave when in the mood for punishment. With a book. Top corner of every page smudged orange. The hangover headache would surely pack a wallop. An orange-additive-and-nicotine-thrashing.
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Make Herr’s Yours
Does that rhyme?
Make Her’s Yers looks better to me.
The Lunch Encounter 