To anyone out there who mocks English/Irish fare, I have three words for you: fish. and. chips.
Actually, I have a few more words, such as “oh my god get out you don’t know what you’re even talking about,” and “um, have you HEARD of Sunday roast, you plebe?” It seems like a lazy, uninformed kind of insult, especially since I follow a few British food bloggers on here and easily 98 percent of the time I find myself drooling all over my keyboard at their pictures of amazing-looking food. (Though I have to get this off my chest: Haggis. Admittedly, I’ve never had it, because I can’t wrap my head around it. I just…what. Why. Scottish people, please explain.)
I wish my favorite food was something like kale. Or quinoa. Or a green smoothie. Not that I don’t like these things (well, I’ve never actually had a green smoothie. I’ll get there.), but French fries have my heart. This is not a good thing for me – especially with an annual physical coming up (I am certain I’ll be admonished for my mass spud consumption, which will probably show up in my bloodwork because there’s no way that my veins are not full of starch) – but it could be a good thing for you … especially if you’ve been hankering for chili fries but haven’t had a chance to make a pot of chili. And seriously, who’s going to make a pot of chili for the sole purpose of putting them on fries? I mean… you could, but you’d have to make the chili and the fries, and that, my friends, is not going to happen in this girl’s kitchen. Especially not on a Monday night. I’m sure Colin (the superior dish washer of the duo) is grateful for that, too.