Cold French Fries.

Until this past summer my dad had commuted 80 miles a day, round trip, every weekday between work and home. It was a dependable routine. Wake up, make coffee, shower, take lunch, start driving, eat breakfast, work for 8 hours (with lunch break), drive home, get home in time for dinner, or dinner and the Lakers (during bball season), pack leftovers for next day's lunch, a little more tv, sleep.

When I was younger, he would sometimes buy his lunch at an eatery near work. It was always the same: fried chicken and french fries. Maybe with vanilla tootsie rolls for a sweet snack. I knew what he ate because he would bring some home of his leftover meal for me and my brothers and I to eat. The french fries were cold but I loved them. Growing up we occasionally went out for fast food, but the majority of the time my mom cooked. And fries were GOOD. (Not actually delicious, but if you are a fry lover who doesn't eat them daily, leftover fries are yum... and please be reminded, memories are constructs.) If Dad came home with a styrofoam to-go box in his hand I knew that I could have a pre-dinner snack of sometimes reheated, often not, french fries. I'm not sure whether he couldn't finish it or whether he knew we'd eat them, but there was always leftovers from his bought lunches.

I ate a couple of cold fries yesterday at work, leftover from the meal I had hours before. It brought be back my memory of those times, when life was simpler and we were all less wasteful. Oh, my nostalgia fries. Granted we were poor, but it didn't matter. Or we didn't notice because my parents worked hard and did an awesome job. I want that. I want sweet (not the flavor, the feeling).

I want simple.