This first post rides in on the coattails of an epicure’s tragedy; I and my wisdom teeth were parted yesterday, and I can only eat things that are the texture of baby food. Even the banana I mashed into this morning’s yogurt was a struggle. I found myself panting halfway through the bowl, like a benchwarmer jock in a lacrosse game, and eventually had to scoop out and discard anything on the chunk continuum.
Adding temptation to injury were the seven or so bags of uniquely flavored potato chips my friend B, who is visiting from London, brought as a present. Seeing them on the cupboard shelf is the worst kind of torture. I love potato chips more than many things, even things to which I’m devoted—bangle bracelets, mass transit, coffee ice cream. I’d barter them all for some Lays down at the trading post without batting an eye.
These particular British examples (I am fighting the urge to call them crisps, because that is so tired and so 2002 Study Abroad) are even more tempting than fairness would mandate, because they come in cracktastic flavor combinations unavailable in the standard New York grocery store: Oven Roasted Chicken with Lemon & Thyme, Flame Grilled Steak, Thai Sweet Chili, Prawn Cocktail, and more.
Witness the treasures.