Neither crisp nor brown
Somewhere along the way, around the age of nine, I learned that what you thought you had seen might have been something completely different. I say nine, because we had just moved to a new town. Our first town. And the people upstairs had made French fries. Like I had seen in the restaurant, but right there at home. I was ready to add this to our home table.
As an aside, I had recently received my cooking badge at Cubs. I was possibly overqualified.
In the kitchen, I found several potatoes, which I carefully peeled. I then spent a very long time getting my fries ready. Lovely, parallel bits of culinary wonder. And I filled a pot with water, which I brought to a brisk boil.
This was in a time before fast food restaurants, or frozen fries. What did I know about the skills required to be a line cook. I had seen the preparation, right there in the building, and I was sure of my coup. There might even be some for my siblings. Offered out of the goodness of my heart. We now lived in town, to be sure.
At this point, my mother asked a few pointed questions. For my own safety, I assume. I had the self-assured tone of a boy with knowledge, and assured her that the secret was to get the water boiling, before adding my potatoes. She sighed and told me to carry on. After all, French fries are easy to make.
After what seemed like a very long time; probably about fifteen minutes, I removed the pot from the stove, and drained off the water.
My fries never got crisp, or brown and, my mother never mentioned it again.
