Sad Single Guy Recipes: Sweet Potato Fries
The end of Daylight Savings may indicate early darkness for some, but for me, a single guy in his 30s, it brings an extra case of the hunger pangs and admittedly, a tickling of the funny bone (oh boy!). I pulled out my keys to unlock the door into my poorly lit apartment during the dreary Sunday that was yesterday, knowing that there was no companion to greet me on the other side, contemplating what's the next step in my life's direction, I got a sudden hankering for something salty, yet sweet. Sweet potato fries sure sounded good. Maybe a little football watching to get that adrenaline pumping too. I fired up the television and turned on a game between Philadelphia Eagles and Denver Broncos thinking about the tastiness about my upcoming meal.
But first, a slight power nap.
Several hours later, I woke up bewildered and encased in the aforementioned darkness, not only in the literal sense, but from the depths of my mind. "Oh God, what are happy couples doing right now?" or "that woman in the Lexus commercial really loves her car, she also has a spouse that cares about her, even if her white gloves look pretentious" is all my mind could currently comprehend, but the thought of sweet potato fries bottled those emotions for another time, perhaps for when I hop into the shower for one of my daily cries.
As I sat on the couch watching the Chiefs and Cowboys spar back and forth into what ended up being a gridiron clash for the season, I painfully willed myself up to the kitchen to get preparations in order. Here's what you'll need:
Single Guy Sweet Potato Fries
- 1 sweet potato (give it a name of a late 90s celebrity too)
- 1 baking sheet
- 2 dull knifes
- 2 tbsp olive oil, one for you and one for your significant other (tangible or invisible)
- Garlic powder (to keep those vampires away!)
- Oregano (or Oregon-O if you live on the west coast!)
The sweet jewel yam that resided in it's own lonely, plastic bag of life was still right where I left it - I knew that this cute little fella could relate to me, and damn it, I was going to turn it into something beautiful and comforting. After I peeled the top half of it off with a dull knife (be careful everybody), I saw something radiant, something vibrant staring back at me. I mean look at this peeled face:
It was like this studly spud was singing the Dawson's Creek theme right to me (feel free to play the Paula Cole classic along as you prepare the rest of your stupendous side dish - or entree in my case), telling me "hey buddy, look everything's just fine. No big deal that your 32 and you're in debt up to your eyelids. You have me!" Despite Dawson not having a nose, I couldn't help but brush my welling tears aside to place a gentle Eskimo kiss on it's smooth, rust-colored exterior. I could feel his caress....and it felt good.
Now it was time for the fun part, cutting him into several, thinner Dawsons. I found another duller, bigger knife and began slicing my new friend away, all the while blubbering "I'm sorry" with each forceful push of the knife. I dismissed his screams of pain as screams of elation as I had him all lined up and ready to go.
This was indeed going to be a sweet experience for the ages, one that I couldn't wait to post on Instagram so people would think that I was a productive member of society.
Next, it was time to call upon the sweat of my Italian ancestry aka: olive oil (haha it's not really their sweat) to season them with spices of deliciousness. I thought about the word "season" and how it reminded me of the holidays when I had someone to call my own as I sprinkled garlic powder, oregano and a salt combination that I got at the local market down the street.
Thinking ahead, I preheated the oven up to 400 degrees so my potato compadres were ready to be bodaciously baked. I opened the oven door and peered into it's cavernous void. "Just a little further" it called to me as I removed my head from it's welcoming depths and slid in the baking sheet. Wow, what a meal this was going to be!
25 minutes later after scorching earth with another close relative over the phone (and being sure to flip them after ten) my fries looked ready and raring to go. Too despondent to gather a tray table, I placed the warm plate on my lap and pretended it was my good friend Dawson in beagle puppy form, waiting for my love. That's when I found solace and purpose. Me and my several Dawsons were going to have a great night.