A French Fry Affair

I often hear complaints about fast food fries; they're too small, too soggy, too cold, too hard, too few, too greasy, etc. Though I complain as often myself and pull faces at every ketchup-laden bite I take, I can't help but relish every last ghastly bite. I begin by pulling out the longest and softest fries that flop all around the box, hoping the fries are still piping hot, or at least were within the last hour. The obviously juicy fries disappear quickly by twos and threes. I dump out the remainder and wade through the hard crunchy rejects to find those plump and juicy ones (as plump and juicy as a fry can be) that escaped my grasp. They, too, deplete quickly and I find myself picking off the rejects one by crunchy one, trying to dip the microscopic fry crisps into the catsup with more catsup on my fingers than on the fry. The fries are gone and I find myself licking the salt from my fingers, disappointed they're gone. That's it? That wasn't very many. Depression sets in. That's when I'll finally reach for my burger. I dig in the to-go bag and my breath catches. What's this? Some golden nuggets have fallen to the bottom of the bag, an unexpected find. The few stray fries are now cold and hard, but I savor each ketchup-laden morsel as I pull another face. An hour later, I complain that my fries were too small, soggy, cold and hard, but secretly I anticipate my next French fry affair.