Be a potato chip expert (Part 2)
The
Chip Monk wannabe and the Chip Monkey (12-year-old Daniel) hit the store to
pick up 7 different varieties of chips so I could take a potato chip challenge.
The Chip Monkey worried about the purchase.
"Why
are we doing this?" Daniel asked. Why indeed.
"Mom's not gonna like this," he said as I walked to the register with $20 worth of junk food, a credit card and a smile.
"These are the rules: you get to try three chips and then if you don't guess right, you lose a life or something." No pressure there.
"Can
I do this, too?" Ahhh, a chip off the old block.
The way I figure, a good Chip Monk needs 2 qualifications: 1.) One must be able to distinguish among chips. (A blindfolded challenge for which we’re now ready.)
2.) One must be a potato chip snob. (“Salt-free, fat-free chips?!? Isn’t that just paper?”) I already meet this criteria.
With Linda’s scarf as a blindfold, I crushed the chip challenge, accurately distinguishing among Lays Classic, Kettle chips, Munchos and PopChips—which were all surprisingly similar—as well as Pringles, Lays Wavy and Ruffles.
Phew,
that means I’m not a ChippenDip!
Daniel and his friends joined in the challenge; a quick apology to any anti-chip neighborhood parents, but you’re rolling the dice letting your kids head our way. And I’m proud to say Daniel was the only other contestant with a perfect score. What can I say, he’s a blue-chip talent!
If you would like to qualify for Chip Monk designation, please send $1 to the Chips are Down Foundation, care of my wife. That may enable me to get my credit card back.
Be a potato chip expert (Part 1)
I read somewhere—I forget where—that contests are held to find the best sommelier. For those who don’t read, or forget where they read things, a sommelier is a wine expert, the person at fancy restaurants who suggests the right wine for your meal.
I’d like to be recognized as an expert. But not in a high-brow, “You’ll want a 2001 French Stewart with that foie Mardi gras” kind of way. If I’m in a sommelier’s restaurant, I’m probably asking for directions or to use the men’s room.
My area of expertise is kind of obvious. I’m a potato chip connoisseur. Ruffles, Lay’s, Pringles, Utz, kettle-cooked, rippled – I could go on, but I need to find a way to prove my expertise.
And what will I call myself? The title needs to be sophisticated but less snooty than sommelier, which loosely translated means, “I loathe you.”
Would I be a Chipper? A Chapper? A Chippendale! Whoa, that’s going down the wrong road.
Maybe a ChippenDolt? A Chip Witch? Any volunteers for that title?
Nope, I got it: A Chip Monk. It implies a lifetime of serious, studious chipology with just a hint of “My, you’re stupid” attached to it.
So now all I have to do is earn the designation. Shouldn’t be hard, since I’m making up the rules. (To be continued)
"Mom's not gonna like this," he said as I walked to the register with $20 worth of junk food, a credit card and a smile.
"These are the rules: you get to try three chips and then if you don't guess right, you lose a life or something." No pressure there.
The way I figure, a good Chip Monk needs 2 qualifications: 1.) One must be able to distinguish among chips. (A blindfolded challenge for which we’re now ready.)
2.) One must be a potato chip snob. (“Salt-free, fat-free chips?!? Isn’t that just paper?”) I already meet this criteria.
With Linda’s scarf as a blindfold, I crushed the chip challenge, accurately distinguishing among Lays Classic, Kettle chips, Munchos and PopChips—which were all surprisingly similar—as well as Pringles, Lays Wavy and Ruffles.
Daniel and his friends joined in the challenge; a quick apology to any anti-chip neighborhood parents, but you’re rolling the dice letting your kids head our way. And I’m proud to say Daniel was the only other contestant with a perfect score. What can I say, he’s a blue-chip talent!
If you would like to qualify for Chip Monk designation, please send $1 to the Chips are Down Foundation, care of my wife. That may enable me to get my credit card back.
Be a potato chip expert (Part 1)
I read somewhere—I forget where—that contests are held to find the best sommelier. For those who don’t read, or forget where they read things, a sommelier is a wine expert, the person at fancy restaurants who suggests the right wine for your meal.
I’d like to be recognized as an expert. But not in a high-brow, “You’ll want a 2001 French Stewart with that foie Mardi gras” kind of way. If I’m in a sommelier’s restaurant, I’m probably asking for directions or to use the men’s room.
My area of expertise is kind of obvious. I’m a potato chip connoisseur. Ruffles, Lay’s, Pringles, Utz, kettle-cooked, rippled – I could go on, but I need to find a way to prove my expertise.
And what will I call myself? The title needs to be sophisticated but less snooty than sommelier, which loosely translated means, “I loathe you.”
Would I be a Chipper? A Chapper? A Chippendale! Whoa, that’s going down the wrong road.
Maybe a ChippenDolt? A Chip Witch? Any volunteers for that title?
Nope, I got it: A Chip Monk. It implies a lifetime of serious, studious chipology with just a hint of “My, you’re stupid” attached to it.
So now all I have to do is earn the designation. Shouldn’t be hard, since I’m making up the rules. (To be continued)
Gray Stikeleather Handwerk:
ReplyDeleteWhat chip goes best with a tub of Dean's? This is hugely important.
John Roach: Uh-oh, the Chip Monk wannabe doesn't know what a tub of Dean's is. Jimmy Dean's sausages? Ice cream? I'd eat chips with both of those things, but I got's to know what Dean's is first.
Gray Stikeleather Handwerk:
Those refrigerated tubs of French Onion dip. Classy stuff. Wavy or plain? What brand? Can you draw a line where the sophistication of crackers would be necessary? That's a whole different ballgame. Who knew this could be so complicated?
John Roach:
I just drooled a little on my keyboard. "Tubs of French Onion dip" . . . . mmmmmm. For dip, you want a tougher chip--and never a cracker. The heresy! I'd go Herr's Wavy until the bag is gone!
David Seigerman:
Okay, Chip Champ . . . can you tell me, without Googling, the only place in the United States where Pringles are made? The minor league baseball team there plays in Pringles Park (a field of your dreams, to be sure).
John Roach:
Uh-oh again! The Chip Monk, using his powers of deduction, figures it's in New York or Tennessee--2 of your homes at one point. I'm going with Tennessee and I'll say it's in Knoxville.
John Roach:
The Chip Monk wannabe rocks!!!! It's Tennessee--wooo hooooo!!! One step closer to official Monkdom!
David Seigerman:
Jackson, Tennessee . . What America is Meant to Be. Of course, we all love Pringles -- the snack that gave a whole new meaning to "eating chips in the can"