Are French fries scientific? A formula I have as a precise algorithm is when I begin to cry, I go stand in the buyer’s line; consumerism inspires me while purchasing French fries. When tears are falling many a moment in the daily let’s-do-this, I value my ability for water works. In French fry currency those eye droplets convert into more than a random French fry and more like entire portions, wherever I source them. More tears, more French fries and who can argue with that precise, scientific, and mathematical equation?

Yesterday in a Kapa’au village on Hawai’i Island I cued up at an L&L, a quality fast-food magnet serving a local population of 1,950 kindred denizens. Not everybody was in line at once for fries due to crying. The take-out window is a few feet from outdoor patio seats where customers dine. Kindness happens at this dining establishment especially from the cashier who exits the kitchen prep-space and walks your order to where a potato client, and she could be any one of us, is resting peacefully in a chair now zenfully one with a French fry moment.

A further component to fries and her science is one daring statistic, this one being a Fox News rumor that Americans eat 30 pounds of French fries yearly. (Whether accurate or not is questionable; see the documentary Outfoxed, a reveal on how Fox News flips over and becomes liberal—with accuracy on facts, that is.) Factual we do have that in 1802 Thomas Jefferson placed his White House order: “serve me potatoes cooked in that French style.” For a few centuries, Americans have been chasing the deep-fried potato dream. Or take an 1856 specific recipe. Eliza Warren in her book Cookery for Maids of All Work directs us to julienne thinly the potato then sizzle in high temperature skillet fat.

Did L&L chili cheese fries paired with mustard, sriracha, and ketchup exist in 1856?

In the intro chapter, she closes on hope: “…and act by your mistress as you would have her act by you; and remember that in all your doings, the eye of God is ever on you.” At 60 years old, my maid days are securely over which brings a modern mistress and she be the humble American French fry. We plate up under the eyes of Goddess, culinary blessings be. The relationship has motivated my going into America for French fry endeavor purposes: various oils, cuts, potatoes, toppings, spices and culinary details of more, more, and more as relates to the order of salt and fat that I will be placing at any regional window across more than a few of these united states; in other words, a French fry road trip extraordinaire.

Road trips require thorough philosophical prep before embarking, a reason why I reflect on the Barbie movie that arrived in 2023. Initially, two years ago when 12-year-old Darien encouraged our family to go see the Barbie movie, I burst out laughing. Sure enough, I explained, I was not laughing at the suggestion or at him, simply at how my highly evolved feminist perspective on the world would not allow me to perpetuate the heteronormative paradigm through consumerist channels like buying a movie ticket.

“But did you know that Greta Gerwig is the director?” he smiled. Wait. Is that a calculating smirk? Sometimes our kids get to know us, dammit. For several years I had been waxing poetically about Gerwig’s directing artistry for the films Ladybird and Little Women. My son had heard the news during family “conversation” (Mama ranting?) hour.

“What in the sweet hell are we waiting for? Let’s go,” I said, grabbing my jacket from the kitchen chair and hurtling us towards the nearest movie theater, a one-hour drive from the cow field dispatches where I live. When the movie ended, he walked on over to where I sat—way far away, separate seating being required for middle schoolers and parents; he asked one of the basics.

“What did you think?”

And for a good while I could not respond because I was crying. What brought tears was the sheer audacity that Gerwig created a film inside which younger girls have a chance to recognize how idealizing Barbie is an obstacle to healthy self-image. Value as I do the art of crying, I will go there right in public. All good. This theme that girls to female youth to adult women reclaim life’s power in consciously creative ways has a leitmotif—that is, a recurring thematic movie sound. The inquiry lyrics are in “Closer to Fine,” originally from Indigo Girls, while Brandi Carlile and her wife Catherine cover the song in an empowered version soundtracking when Barbie continues leveling up in her own expansive life. The song is a leitmotif and so is a French fry order.

French fries are so thematic on a road trip and throughout the good life. During brief periods when I am away from a French fry plate, one given nutritional superpower bestowed to my culinary appetite is a simplicity menu. Beets and lentils might appear on the circular porcelain for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and not one question would I counter with while being at this happy camper picnic table. Simply delicious. Through exercise and nutrient dense foods, I have healthily improved my cholesterol levels.

I suppose this is why I simply must walk a renegade oily path bravely ordering greasy, superbly not-healthy, French fries wherever I source them in one united state or another. The leitmotif is that thematically fries are way off my older woman dietary recommendations. Yet, I go there still. Reasonable I am that the figure I carry is a she-heroine who I respect and admit my appearing like Barbie days are over because they never began since I did not ever have a start on wanting to look like her. Early in my growing up roots, I considered an athletic vulnerability as plenty good enough for my lesbian style. Sharing the hope I am for all girl youth and women to select independent food choices for your own reasons and not for an artificial beauty myth.

Garlic cheese fries ordered from L&L, which thankfully is a brief walk away from my house.

Fries are also leitmotif for the chance to observe popular American culture. Picture a few well-placed orders at the French fry window of opportunity. Can’t you just see the context as a way to appreciate a basic American food? What complexity is there in ordinary culture salted and peppered with details on how many of us in the United States live routinely valuable lives?

For instance, during the zenful fry moment where our essay began a few paragraphs in time and space ago, I was standing at the L&L ordering window. A few minutes after I connected cash dollars to culinary request, a multitasking woman who was the cashier and server brought my emotional support system right on over. A real smile, a bouncy return pacing to the kitchen, and I absorbed helpful vibes that all could be French fry well despite the tearful odds. Even so, condiments are required.

We have ketchup, yellow mustard, and Siracha as starters. On one half of the plastic clam shell, I organized these potato flavor devices. A strategic section of fries received soy sauce and pepper sprinkles. Sitting in my regenerative chair, I began plowing through the fries. For the occasion, I skipped an earlier meal. Don’t count on me going to that commitment level often, since fries will be a pursuit of happiness in the land of the free daily event—whether intermittent fasting happens or not. Only the spontaneous potato locations will tell during our road trip.

But then a perilous Scooby Doo moment kicked me free from bliss into reality. Can you recall that intuitive dog Scooby whispering or shouting as the detective case foiled his team? We heard the telling sounds, “Ruh roh.” Dog speak for “uh oh” or universal code for I don’t have a paddle to navigate this **beep** (censored) creek. The culinary fall from grace or why I needed a paddling escape was the last layer of fries. The French fry layers before had aligned with my emotional ecosystem so fantastic.

Deep fried means we have grease and probably not so recently replaced either, so any reaction I have to the world is now subdued in high temperature stale fat. Plus, salt. I cannot imagine any life situation where I’m trying to solace tears where salt is not the answer. Fat and salt are entirely balm for our human souls. The salt had been sprinkled by the kitchen staff and my kuleana (responsibility) was just to follow through. Silent applause I gave myself after five minutes focusing—all fries dipped and eaten—until I arrived at the last layer when I pushed my chair back and simply stared.

Way at the bottom of stacked fries was one layer entirely cold and not recently deep fried or even salted. The kitchen staff, who I revere, had in a qualitatively sunken (sinking?) life moment (the Titanic had begun to list sharply) scooped cold fries into my order as filler. Somebody must eat those leftovers is my guess what the kitchen crew decided. Just that I didn’t volunteer and I am genuinely not a fan of being voluntold.

Had a universal trickster brought intentional upset during the last dozen or so French fries? What human kitchen-staff fragility had pivoted the sacrilegious premise that fat and salt will ease woe? Staying true to my predisposition for optimism, I picked up that cold French fry anyway. Courageously I plowed through half of the cold ones. That’s as much mustard as I could muster. Enough.

True that this go-to French fry escape had an aspect of disappointing and so have the political conflicts in recent America. Most of my upset is at feeling so helpless over political dismay, the demeaning changes happening in the US. Luckily my curiosity is stronger than feeling futile. What if I brought my teenage son Darien and his Mama on a family road trip from California to Oklahoma and back west again through America?

Intrepid we remain before French fries run out. I’m convinced that across the food table’s political divide, a generous portion of French fries in the center, conversations might get salty, sure—yet the potential to listen. I’m fascinatingly curious about these talking lines or talk storying, the art of letting the tangents fly while staying grounded in respect and care.

In life, we have no idea when the last hidden layer will be cold French fries nobody orders. Unglamourous surprises are routine during anyone’s day. If I were to lose my wits over a few cold julienned potatoes, this means I’m living on a scarcity model. But abundance is the word for how many fries I had already enjoyed. Who cares if one colleague of mine in the world, an L&L cook in a hectic kitchen, shuffled a few cold fries into the mix? Is my empathy so absent? Good news is that the proverbial water glass was half full, not half empty, or the French fry container was mountainously full already, not empty at all with only a few of those woebegone cold fries hurriedly repurposed.

At the end of this zenful French fry moment, life was all gravy.

A framework I have for the road trip blog essays is listening to people’s reactions on what was never expected and could be disastrously hurting ordinary lives. Staying idealistic I am about a few tears falling in any hour of a gifted day because these are not a blemish. Crying is a signal to wake up and smell the French fries. Besides, laughter usually follows tears.

The future blessings moment is to celebrate what we already have right here, right now. Given that many Americans are limited on access to material security, why not share writing that focuses on frugal yet richly abundant people moments? Our country thrives on we the people, one essential democracy tenet proclaims. Good gracious almighty then, let’s go travel there, people.