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My mom years ago told me when she was younger she loved dipping potato chips in ice cream. The combination sounded like something a crazy pregnant woman would crave. But then I thought about the harmonious relationship between a milkshake and French fries, the way they work symbiotically to produce something greater than the sum of its parts.

This weekend I gave in, and regretfully allowed a witness to such gluttony. Next time I’ll do this in secrecy, in nothing but a pair of forgiving grandma panties.

So what I’m saying is, Mom was right. Again.

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When planning to visit my parents for a weekend, my dad announced that he would drag out the deep fryer. That was all I had to hear to get me on a train out to the ‘burbs for a couple of days.

And you thought he was kidding. Here we have deep-fried string beans, cod and corn dogs. Oh, and we also made potato chips. With my dad at the helm and me, salt in hand, we were the two-person team behind the dinner aptly named by my dad, “Sunday Fry-Up”.

I can’t say that my GI tract let me off easily, but this day dedicated to gluttony and grease was entirely worth it. The bonds formed and enhanced by spending time in the kitchen and around the dinner table with others is, to me, one of the simple beauties in life. So though you may just see a bunch of fried food, I see love.

Cheesy? Perhaps. True? Undoubtedly.