During the last of three layovers that Chicken Noodle and I endured on our journey home from Hawaii, I ordered us dinner in an airport brewpub. When the meals arrived, I reached over and snatched a French fry off of Noodle’s plate and stuck it in my mouth.
Little did I know this simple act would send my overtired child directly to crazy-land.
“I want my French fry!” she wailed. “I want my French fry back!”
Never mind that she had roughly 35 similar French fries on her plate. She wanted that one: the one that got away, the one lost for eternity, the one elevated to idolatry and lament from today into forever just because it had disappeared.
It took twenty minutes of cajoling and a bit of fakery to convince her to get over it.
What is it that makes some of us hold on to things long past their service to us? Why do we obsess about unfinished business? Observing this nuclear meltdown in my child, I wondered: what is my French fry?
Perhaps it is my unpublished book, which I cling to like a deflating life raft, though if only I turned to look I might spot a perfectly superior boat approaching.
I’d love to hear all y’all’s french fries, too. Call today Free the French Fries Monday.
