The foods we eat and love are about surrender, at times unconditional surrender … that is how potato chips feel to me.
At the farmhouse of my youth I held the west flank of the supper table, my chair snugly fit under the radio shelf … an AM radio with a wood cabinet. The behavioral code of mama’s table was … chicken.
The creature I knew as nothing less than a latter-day dinosaur, same scaly feet, same jealous eye, designed to consume wholesale and without remorse. It was that our farmhouse observed tenets of economy no longer in vogue, the active principle being if an article had market value, it was irresponsible, if not immoral, to eat it.