This summer I have only visited four chip trucks. Four. That shows outstanding self-control. There are few things in life I love more than french fries from a chip truck, except long car ride adventures to find them.
You thought I’d say something sweet about loving my husband more than deep-fried potatoes, right? Well, even the happiest of marriages has a line that should never be crossed and the Carpenter drew that line in the gravy on my fourth and final visit of this chip truck season.
Sometimes I am baffled that I ever married a man who doesn’t love chip trucks like I do. That should have been a red flag. He doesn’t appreciate the important factors that go into a good chip truck: thickness of the fresh cut fries (should be moderate; not too thick, not too skinny), the good ketchup, malt vinegar, the quality of the thick gravy.
The Carpenter takes no pleasure in searching for the best chip trucks. It’s like treasure hunting, I tell him, but without a map. You know? Fun. These are food landmarks. You have to be so in tune with the chips that you can sniff them out, locate them without GPS or paper maps, to find the hidden gems that serve the best gravy. I can find my way around most of southeastern Ontario based on chip truck locations. I’m not kidding. That’s my CTS (chip truck system).
But the Carpenter doesn’t enjoy the journey to cholesterol intake. On the rare occasions we take a road trip together, he will drive past a chip truck and pretend he doesn’t hear me when my chip-truck detector warning sounds go off and I point, and my voice goes up a few octaves so that only dogs can hear it when I shout, “chip truck approaching.” He just looks at the road, unaffected, and keeps driving while saying heartless things like, “we have food to eat at home.” Buzz kill. Joy sucker. Ugh.
For my final chip truck of the season, the Carpenter ordered a hamburger. Gah. He didn’t want french fries. Freak. Like what’s the point of going to a chip truck if you don’t get chips? So, I ordered my own medium size chips with gravy, heavy on the gravy. One fork. I don’t share.
While eating, the Carpenter asked if he could have a french fry. Just one. French fry flirt. My eyes said no, but my conscience pushed the fries toward him. That’s when it happened; he took one of the naked french fries and swooped it into the thick, rich gravy nestled in the corner of the paper chip dish. A premeditated move.
Deep down, I wanted to applaud his skill. That chip was dripping in gravy. My gravy. But there are rules. Laws. Etiquette. He knows this.
The corner real estate of gravy lakes in all four corners of the paper chip dish is meant solely for the original chip owner. Same as the centre. You never eat chips from the centre of the pile. You just don’t. It’s unconscionable.
Our eyes met. My expression said it all. Shock and dismay.
He gave me that mischievous smile that starts in his brown eyes long before it leads to his mouth. He lays that charm on thicker than gravy.
I dropped my fork. He was forgiven. Again. Always.
