fried

My boy got a Christmas gift that I thought I would hate.

And I do, I hate it. It's gross.

It makes things like this

gross.

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

Which I then submerged in batches into the cesspool of molten fat juice:

snap, crackle, pop

It doesn't take long for those soft tortilla triangles to be transformed thusly:

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

In the meantime, for the love of all that is holy, if you want to have and keep friends, assemble your goop!

don't forget the dental floss

It's good, people. Very good. Oh, don't forget to not photograph the finished goop next to a colorful bowl of festive chips. That would just be bragging.

Fry, daddy. Fry.