When I was growing up, my best friend Lisa was the one who always had the cool stuff. Her mom always made delicious, cheesy dinners (pizza on Fridays), and this delicacy called broiled flank steak. They had vitamins on the table and served Tang, the astronaut juice beverage.
Perhaps the most wondrous thing they had, however, was a newfangled potato chip called Pringles.
Pringles weren’t like ordinary chips. They came in a can, not a bag. They resealed. They were light and stackable. And they were delicious.
I have preferred these tasty morsels for years now, staying true to the red can version, not the gross flavored one. I am a Pringles purist.
One time, I was picking up a kid at school, and had brought along my friend Pringles. I was enjoying them all by myself, when a lady in the car next to me honked her horn. When I glanced over, she held up her own Pringles can. We smiled at each other, in a moment of freeze-dried potato crumb solidarity.
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