We sat in the Buck Valley Diner, socially distanced. Reba ordered beet salad. Walt, her boyfriend, chose the Wisconsin Special. This is a half-pound burger with bacon, fried egg over the top, onion rings on the side. Reba, a health nut, gave him a look.
The waiter turned to me. Now I was in trouble.
Chicken fried steak with sausage gravy? Or tofu cobb? The plastic menu hid my face. I split the difference. Grilled salmon sandwich. With waffle fries.
Ah, the waffle fry. Cut in discs from the potato, waffle fries have a corrugated, or “waffled” shape, greatly increasing surface area. More area means more can be deep fried, by any measure a stroke of genius. Waffle fries are delivered with a bowl of sour cream blended with mayonnaise, paprika, and a dash of cayenne pepper. The paprika gives it a bit of a rosy or orange color. For some reason this is very appealing.
A waffle fry, dipped in flavored sour cream, is like nothing else in the world. If it sounds like I’ve given it quite a bit of thought, I have.
“You two,” Reba said. “Are addicts.”
This seemed harsh. Walt drinks one beer a week, no more than two, on Friday. I enjoy a little wine, but not much. I have my own Reba at home. Both Walt and I have long ago given up tobacco. Pot’s a thing of the past. A happy, carefree, who-gives-a-crap past. I’m still a little sad about that.
What do you mean, addicts? I asked.
“You’re hooked,” Reba said. “On food.”
“You got that right,” Walt said. They placed our plates before us. The Wisconsin Special has a slab of melted cheddar over the burger. And I mean a slab. Walt cut the thing in half. Cheese and egg yolk, liberally peppered, flowed down the sides.
Reba crunched her salad. She is really not a self-righteous person. But she spoke about food as we ate.
“You can be addicted to food, just like drugs. People get hooked on sugar, salt, and fat. These create cycles of satiation, followed by the opposite, hunger. You become desperate as the drug wears off.”
“But we’re healthy,” I said. Both Walt and I are runners. I take my three-year old Labrador retriever with me. No matter how far we run, she always wants to go further. A three-year old Lab never gets tired.
“So you’re healthy addicts,” Reba said. “For now.”
Walt had been thinking. “You’re saying I should give up addictions?”
“It would be best.”
“What about love?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well,” Walt put his burger down. “All week I am desperate to see you. Then on weekends I fill myself with you. I can’t get enough of your arms. Your neck and ears. Even your little toes. Then it’s back to work on Monday, with the cycle repeating itself. Desperation and satiation.”
Reba blinked.
“Isn’t that addiction?” Walt asked.
“I suppose.”
“And you want me to change?”
Reba’s no dope. “Not quite yet,” she said. She reached over and picked up the other half of Walt’s burger. “And give me a bite of this. It looks really good.”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com