Why Can’t We Develop a Road-worthy French Fry?

The scientists say we’re still not out of the woods as far as the pandemic goes.

But no one can deny most of our day-to-day activities have gone back to that blissful year, 2019 — which no one realized was so blissful at the time.

One activity, however, that hasn’t gone back to normal is the way we consume restaurant food.

I read an article that said the top four food delivery services doubled their revenues in 2020 over 2019.

The article went on to say by 2027, these services will collectively rake in $300 billion.

That’s billion with a B.

I have only one question.

Can we not use some of that money on French fry research and development?

Because you know and I know French fries must be eaten when they are cooked and not after a jaunt across town.

A delivery French fry is cold, it’s rubbery, it’s soggy and it tastes exactly the same as that one that’s been hiding up under your car seat since the Bush administration.

The first Bush administration.

No amount of ketchup can cover it up.

While food delivery has increased, the way it gets delivered has changed also, as I recently learned.

A couple of weekends ago, Kim and I were in Knoxville and we decided to drive around the UT campus and reminisce.

I could bore you until bedtime with what all had changed just since the last time we were there — much less when we were students.

But what took the cake was the little robot cruising down the sidewalk delivering food.

When he got to the corner, he stopped and waited for the light to change.

He was kind of cube shaped, probably about 3 feet tall and wide. He had a little triangular orange flag atop a fiberglass pole, just like the ones we used to fly from our bicycles.

We saw him stop in front of a door, and a student came out to retrieve what I’m sure was avocado toast. It was Sunday after all, and it was around brunch time.

How convenient. What a technological breakthrough.

But it also seems like somewhat of an injustice.

She will never know the feeling of waking up on a weekend morning, throwing on a ball cap and trekking across campus uphill through the snow, sleet and rain to sneak in the door before the dining hall closed.

She will only remember Ricky Robot delivering avocado toast, which I’m sure doesn’t fare much better than the French fry after a trip in the robot.

At what was Martin College at the time, where I spent my first two years, we had the extra obstacle between us and food which we called the “squishy bricks.”

The squishy bricks composed a cobblestone sidewalk which led from the dorm to the cafeteria. And if it was raining, as you stepped on them they would randomly squirt muddy water onto your freshly laundered Calvin Klein jeans and white Reebok tennis shoes, the ones with the green tags.

But when we got to the cafeteria, however, as wet and muddy as we were, the fries were always hot and crispy.

We didn’t realize how good we had it.