And I do, I hate it. It's gross.
It makes things like this
I kid, I kid. I actually suggested this gift idea to my friend Tanja when one of her kids drew my boy's name in the gift swap. I knew he'd love it, and envisioned testosterone fueled evenings when he and his dad would fry up the contents of the freezer for dinner. The photo above is that vision come to fruition.
It's fun to cook in the fry daddy, but does anyone really want to eat that shit?
Turns out, people do.
I decided to employ the fry daddy for my contribution to the superbowl spread.
I started with these:
|Fresh corn tortillas cut into whichever triangular fractions are your liking|
|snap, crackle, pop|
|You've got to let them drain and dry and rest. Use a brown paper bag|
BUT FIRST, WHILE THEY ARE STILL DRIPPY WITH FAT JUICE:
|give them some love in the form of a salty blend of snap|
|shake it up, baby!|
|repeat, repeat, repeat ad nauseum until your house smells like the stuff that teenage zits are made of|
|don't forget the dental floss|
Fry, daddy. Fry.