french fried freak

We all have bouts of mental illness now and again.  My favorite happens to be Obsessive Compulsive Disorder mixed with a little run-of-the-mill neurosis.  Whether it’s alphabetizing every DVD we own or rearranging the medicine cabinet for the 3rd time this month, I like to have everything in it’s place, like items placed together. When it’s impractical to alphabetize, I place things in size order. 

That’s where my french fry conundrum comes in.  When it comes to fries, I prefer mushy ones because they retain most of the natural potato flavor.  Steak fries are my favorite, crinkle fries are a close second.  The fatter the fry, the better.  So you can imagine that fast food french fries are not my first choice.  They’re skinny, they’re hard, and they’re almost always over-salted.  If I wanted a hot potato chip, that’s what I’d be having, but when I want french fries, I want them to have some quality of the best food in all the land (mashed potatoes) somewhere in there.

When my hubby and I split fries at the number one fast food joint in the U.S. (um, Golden Arches…), he takes the over-cooked, pointy-ended, slightly browned ones, and I take the floppy, mushy, golden ones. 

However, I must admit, my french fried freakishness goes a step further:  When fries are that thin, I prefer to eat two or three at a time.  The catch is, they all have to be the same length. 

 

Seriously, why do these things matter to me? 

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