Ode to a french fry

 

Fry, oh french fry, you have been so foreign to me,

we’ve been apart for 40 days and now I can eat thee.

even though you’re not from France,

your crunch and soft middle just make me dance.

You’re a true spud, monsieur, in any form and shape,

covered with dirt and harvested often, you come from our landscape.

most of your kind hails from Idaho,

and you bring so much delight you’ll never know.

To us it matters not the number of calories or carbs,

and you taste much better than chewing rhubarb.

our time apart has made my heart grow fonder,

maybe one day i’ll grow you out yonder-

and sprinkle the fields with your wondrous beginnings,

just to harvest, wash, cut, and fry up my winnings.

 

— Christine Earhart, junior architecture