The Stress of Scuppered by Spuds

Plus: Another LIVE appearance at the Hudson Farmers' Market, this Saturday, May 25.

Dear Tamar:

What would you suggest making my kids who always want fries? I just don’t want to go through the hassle at home. Please, help me feel less…

…Scuppered by Spuds

Dear Scuppered,

There are several possible beginnings to the tale of Kentucky Jim. The beginning I choose is my childhood home—first in Hartsdale, then in Pleasantville, New York.

An endless stream of houseguests wove through both. There was Danny Williams, a former Maine legislator whose sneakers my mother and I snuck outside while he slept. There was Dan Ariely. There was Hamish from Scotland. There was Richter from Germany, who arrived, fell asleep for ten hours, then absconded with our Jeep, turning up in Maine a week later, still in the Jeep, now with a pet snake.

Guests stayed for a night, or a week, or a month, folding themselves into our household—they were in the bathroom, at the table, using the car, etc. At some point, mid-stream, was Jim.

Jim was unkempt and blond—very blond, unusually blond—and permanently sun-burned. Jim was often bare-chested, donning a graying white tank top for meals. Jim was from Kentucky; there must have been an earlier Jim, because we all called Jim Kentucky Jim.

I’ll pause here to share two details: My father was the author of our open-door policy. It had been inherited from his parents. The house in Rehavia, Jerusalem, where he’d grown up, had been packed with guests. Because the door was always open, there was rarely enough food. As a child, my father had learned to serve himself little, and to wait until every guest had eaten their fill before asking for more. He was pinched under the table if he transgressed. He imported this policy to our house. (I’ve been told by irritated friends over the years that my immediate family is aggravatingly polite. It’s born of this generations-deep code.)

Detail 2: Like your kids, I love french fries. I love all french fries—soggy, crispy, curly, steak, waffle, fast food, thrice fried, shoestring, industrial, homemade, whatever. I only ever got to eat them at Roy Rogers, where my grandfather insisted that we share. Same at McDonald’s, and Rye Playland. I’ve never gotten to eat as many french fries as I’d like.

It was no small matter when my mother decided to make her own fries. She had a checkered history with frying, having once caught on fire, and once burned down our kitchen. I commended her courage and humanity: she was not only frying, but frying my favorite food.

It was summer. The back door was open, only a fine screen keeping out bugs. My father sat at the head of the table, with my brother, my mother, and me generally to his right and guests to his left. On the night in question, my mother brought the fries to the table in a wide basket, a crisp golden nest. They were cut like McDonalds fries—per my request—and still almost glistening from their second fry, salt glinting in the summer sun. My father served himself a polite portion, then my mother took several fries, passing me the basket. I, too, served myself several, before passing the basket to my brother, who, even at eight years old, knew to obey. The basket of fries went to Jim. Who, looking around the table at all of our plates, said: “Well, since you’ve all got some…” and tipped the entirety of the basket onto his own plate.

My feelings were so sharp that they haven’t mellowed much over the years. I can still see the deep yellow summer light on the table. I can feel the fury rising through my collar bones. My face burns and my pulse quickens with the injustice—as though it were happening now, this moment, today.

What lesson am I trying to impart? I’ve never eaten french fries since without remembering Kentucky Jim—and not just remembering him: I’ve never eaten them without the sting returning. I am made vulnerable by every order of french fries, and have been since Kentucky Jim stole mine.

This makes me firm and territorial about fries. But that isn’t the lesson. The lesson is that every time I’ve had fries since Kentucky Jim sat at our table, I’ve felt grateful that he wasn’t there to take them from me—conscious of how lucky I am.

Dear cook, I don’t suggest that you traumatize your fry-loving children as I was traumatized. It was awful. The cellular wear I endure each time I recall it is unhealthy. I instead suggest passing along my tale—as a sort of cautionary morality/horror story; as the sort of thing that happens out in the world, and not even to a really unlucky child. As something that happened to a friend of a friend, whose mother conceded to make fries at home. Perhaps tell the story, and leave it there. And then, a little while later, after it’s all sunk it, set out some carrot sticks.

And: come to the Hudson Farmers’ Market this Saturday, May 25 9-12:30 to get answers to all your culinary questions! Wondering what to do with that Blue Star Farm savory? Or whether you can cook Tivoli Mushrooms combination baskets together? Or how to use Samascott’s green garlic? Or how to store spelt bread from Sparrowbush Bakery? Or what to buy from Pura Vida to feed a crowd? Come on by, and I’ll tell you!