McCain Oven Chip, wherein lies thy mystery?
Done on the outside,
Not done on the inside.
What sun-engendered brightness begat thy crust?
Once a yellow so unholy that Nature Herself recognised it not,
Now black as hell itself, and twice as damnable,
Begotten by too long in the oven, at too high a temperature.
Whyfore not do Belling properly calibrate their ovens
Back in the factory?
Sometimes thick cut,
A rustic choice here,
A fry in the French style;
All chips counter, original, strange.
And from what heat-oppressed brain begat the notion of the crinkle cut?
What benefit lies therein?
Is this just market segmentation to persuade us poor folk
To part with our wage, won with the sweat of our shabby commuting lives?
McCain Oven Chip, ever a sweet and bitter disappointment.
How low the potato has sunk.
To be fair, I’m probably just cooking them wrong.
For more rubbishy old poems, try this.