For my coworkers, it’s French fry day. Mmmmm…. I remember French fries! Once they became Patriot Fries, I quit them altogether; I just don’t do that whole “go-USA-my-patriotism-shows-in-what-I-name-my-food” business. But dang, they smell good. I considered surreptitiously reaching over into their styrofoam boxes to sneak one or two, but I could envision the look of horror on their faces (we’re not that close). So I didn’t. Plus my one co-worker is a serious double-dipper phobic, and I’m sure that foreign hands in her food box is dangerous and threatening.
But OH to be young and free and a French-fry eater! I can’t justify the hardening of my arteries for a few minutes of pleasure. And besides that, hospital food, no matter how cooked, fried, processed, or salted, is wrong. Hmm... maybe that's why. But regardless, it just isn’t natural. When I eat it, it makes my stomach cry out in rebellion, so even if I wanted to cheat my own system of food values, I couldn’t.
Anyway, what ensued, of course, when I showed up with what they no doubt consider to be a ridiculous and offensive lunch, was talk of diets (apples inspire these kinds of conversations) and the ever-looming bikini season. Apparently, Lean Cuisine phylly cheese steak flat bread shandwiches are awesome, and oh-so-low in fat. Eh, whatever.
In retaliation to their little ketchup-filled boxes, though, I ate 3 Hershey’s kisses and drank a Pepsi from the vendy. Wha?! I did!
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