Wheatzie

I love mushy food. I’m going to make a great old person someday because I won’t need teeth to chew; the stuff I like to eat slides right down. Most people complain about soggy, wilting McDonald’s fries.   I don’t.   That’s actually the way I order them: “Do you happen to have, like, an undercooked batch?   Or could you scoop a few of them out of the frier a couple minutes early for me, maybe?” I love when the fry is so soft and greasy with oil that it just sort of flops onto your finger when you take it out of the bag. YUMMY. At restaurants, I ask for my steak “as rare as you’re legally allowed to serve it, please.” The servers’ reactions to this request are always fun—especially if the server is a 20-something male who is ready to watch how this challenge will go down. His eyebrows will shoot up and he’ll nod his head, giving me a knowing smile. I sometimes like to imagine the server and the chef in the kitchen, roaring with laughter about the still-bleeding ...