As I was driving home from school yesterday, I decided to stop at our local Burger King, store number 9932. The greasy French-fried smell emanating from the building was an irresistible force, pulling me in against my better judgment. I managed to drive through the drive-through lane and pay without any mishaps, and was promptly rewarded with a brown paper bag and a plastic cup with a red straw sticking out the top.
I pulled into a parking space and proceeded to inspect the contents of the bag. After undoing the wax-paper origami that contained my cheeseburger, I peeled off the top of the bun and ate the little round pickles first. Pickles are okay, as long as you don't think about them bathing in brine in a mason jar on a shelf in someone's cupboard for five years before they're strategically placed on top of your Kraft cheese square. This was only one of the many philosophical thoughts that came to my mind as I finished my first course.
French fries are the quintessential comfort food. No matter where in the world you go, you can always find a familiar, reliable paperboard box of oily potatoes to make you feel better. The ones I got yesterday were particularly delicious, not too hot but not cold and soggy either. They were just the right color, soft yellow in the middle and golden and crispy at the ends. It didn't take long before my fingernails were scraping the bottom of the cardboard container, and I was sad to find that all of my French fries had disappeared.
My strawberry milkshake had become disappointingly warm in the time it had taken for me to eat the other food. If I had waited any longer it might have turned into sticky strawberry milk, and my experience with it would have been decidedly less enjoyable. But as luck would have it, it had retained some of its original frozen consistency, and it proved a delightful finish to my afternoon snack. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed home.
I pulled into a parking space and proceeded to inspect the contents of the bag. After undoing the wax-paper origami that contained my cheeseburger, I peeled off the top of the bun and ate the little round pickles first. Pickles are okay, as long as you don't think about them bathing in brine in a mason jar on a shelf in someone's cupboard for five years before they're strategically placed on top of your Kraft cheese square. This was only one of the many philosophical thoughts that came to my mind as I finished my first course.
French fries are the quintessential comfort food. No matter where in the world you go, you can always find a familiar, reliable paperboard box of oily potatoes to make you feel better. The ones I got yesterday were particularly delicious, not too hot but not cold and soggy either. They were just the right color, soft yellow in the middle and golden and crispy at the ends. It didn't take long before my fingernails were scraping the bottom of the cardboard container, and I was sad to find that all of my French fries had disappeared.
My strawberry milkshake had become disappointingly warm in the time it had taken for me to eat the other food. If I had waited any longer it might have turned into sticky strawberry milk, and my experience with it would have been decidedly less enjoyable. But as luck would have it, it had retained some of its original frozen consistency, and it proved a delightful finish to my afternoon snack. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed home.
Post a Comment
Be the first to comment on this article!