“You know what I really want right now?” asked my sister the other night, still wrapped in her towel and dripping from her shower. “Fries. Real fries.”
I’ve never worked in a fast food joint, so I’ve never had the opportunity to ask people if they wanted fries (or anything else, for that matter). Usually, this is always the way it is: people tell me what they want and I make it.
We had some potatoes on hand, leftover gravy from steak night, mushrooms, and ground beef. Hamburgers and handcut fries it was.
I cut the fries and soaked them in a bit of salty water, set them out to drain, and then fried them in batches.
Get a couple of hamburgers going, break out the gravy, toss some mushrooms in, throw some fries on the plate, and you have dinner. Except my sister, who doesn’t like gravy because she’s weird, so her burger was segregated from the gravy burgers.
No green stuff with this meal. Meat and potatoes all the way.