Monday, April 09, 2012


In my boyhood I would sometimes sit next to kids on the "lunch benches" that came from families of higher means than me.  Two that come to mind are David Riparbelli and Benny Piazza.  Both Irish boys, can you tell?  Their moms would pack potato chips in a baggie for their lunch bags.  I don't think I ever got a potato chip in my lunch bag even once my whole life. We fell into a routine where they would give me their darker or more cooked chips and we called them "burnies." We had a silly little ritual where we went back and forth:  Me: "Ooh a burnie.  I want it!" They: "You can't have my burnie!" "Ooh but I must have your burnie. Give me your burnie please..."  and so it went.  Silly grade-schoolers.

Now burnies are made specially for people like me.  Those of us that toast our bread twice on level 6, ask for extra crispy fries that never come back close to how dark we want them.  Those that can make the darkest grilled cheese sandwiches without burning them, ok, only burning them a tiny bit because that's how we roll.

Can't explain it but it was there in my childhood.

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