My fellow Americans. It is good to see you again, as I am sure it is good for you to see me as well, despite my lack of skin, muscles, ligaments, hair, eyes, nose, ears and the like. In fact, there is nothing about me that could be used as an identifier, so… just trust me, I’m Thomas Jefferson, the main man, the Apostle of the Constitution, or whatever the hell I’m being called these days – Long Tom, Tommy Jeff, TJ. I really don’t care, as I don’t plan on staying.
You may be wondering why I’m here. Well, let me tell you, but not by way of a straight answer, because long, drawn-out, perfectly-hewn exposés are the way to deliver the entré that all of mankind must consume more often – the beefy truth stew. After all, the Constitution could have been a one-liner – We the people, in order to form a more perfect union, would like to remind everyone not to be an ass to their fellow human. Maybe we throw an “Amen” at the end. But we went more in-depth than that for artistic flourish, for the good of the people. And for the good of the people, I have finally returned to give the people what they asked for from me on my death bed.
Some goddamn french fries.
For almost two hundred years now, the people must have been clamoring for me to come back from the dead to give them their salty, starchy salvation, as I can only assume that the french fry recipe died out with me, the proprietor of this holiest of tomes.
From my grave, safely under Monticello, where I was slumbering like a small child at the bosom of his mother, I felt the rumblings of discontent above me. The world today… it’s in a temperamental state, is it not? I felt it in my bones. Or on my bones, I guess, as they aren’t really inside anything anymore.
Well, I am here, on National French Fry Day 2018, which has to be next to only Independence Day in terms of national prodigiousness, to give you what you truly need in this highly fraught and indubitably tense day and age.
And don’t call them liberty fries just because you don’t like the French, okay? Or because you’re trying to harness the patriotism in your potatoes. Do be sure not to call them chips, though; that is foolishness of the highest order.
But I digress. The recipe. Yes… the recipe. That is what you are all here for, isn’t it? You are all here, right? The entire population of America, all, what, twenty-five million of you? I can’t actually see or hear anything, as I have no sensory abilities anymore, so I’m just kind of spit-balling here and hoping for the best. I may not even be talking, as I don’t have a tongue, but I’m certainly trying, whatever that is.
Anyway, I tire. Here’s what you do: First you cut potatoes. But make sure you don’t cut them into cubes or, God forbid, something ridiculous like rhomboids. Cut them thin-like, as if you are making itty-bitty potato towers. Then you salt them and then – are you ready for the kicker? – you fry them, much like you’d fry a codfish.
When they turn golden brown, like the color of fresh ground mustard seeds, take them out and let them cool, as you don’t want to burn the roof of your mouth like an petulant Tory child.
And then you consume them, either one at a time, or in a bunch, like a bouquet of delicious flowers.
Even in death, or re-life, or… undeath… I still never fail to amaze myself. Did someone write that recipe down? I’ll not say it again. I do many things, but if there is one thing Long Tom does not do, it is repeat himself.
