How do I love your first resist, the snap, the steam that rises like a grateful ghost, then all at once the molten, salty map of cheddar, provolone—the ultimate host?
Pale imitations wilt beneath a lamp— the frozen kind, the nacho cheese in jars. But you, true fries, refuse to be a stamp. You are the moon’s own comfort, and the stars’ forgotten cousin, served at 2 A.M. to those who’ve danced too hard or loved too slim.
No fork nor knife approaches your domain. Only fingers, reckless, burn the eager skin. To lift a single, dripping, tangled chain is to commit a delicious, greasy sin. ode to cheese fries
O golden nest of crisp and slender suns, cut from the earth’s own russet, buried light, then baptized in the furious, hissing plunge of oil that grants you armor, day-bright.
You are not mere potato, nor mere curd, but a truce declared between two hungry lands. The fry, a soldier; cheese, a gentle herd— combined by grace of unforgiving hands. How do I love your first resist, the
So let the truffle oil poets sneer and write of arugula and foam. I’ll take this fight. For when the world has cracked its every bone, and all the grand cathedrals stand alone, give me a basket, crooked and too hot, where cheese and potato prove what we forgot: that joy is not a concept, but a bite— and heaven, if it’s wise, serves fries all night.
When bacon bits like little brown comets fall, when jalapeños add their green remark, when ranch and sriracha heed the call— you are no side dish. You become the park where happiness runs wild and off the leash. You are the moon’s own comfort, and the
Late night, you arrive in a paper boat, a Styrofoam sea, a foil-wrapped ark. The bar is loud. The lost are still afloat. You are the lantern glowing in the dark.
