AUTHOR’s NOTE: The following story is true, I shit you not.
My daughter Meghan Viers Jolliffe has been telling me how i should buy an air fryer, since before Christmas, because it can fry “blah blibbidy blah blah blah.”
So yesterday I broke down and bought one, the same model they have, some Ninja whatever.
Last night I unpacked it and took it on its maiden voyage of tater tots.
Now hold on, ‘cause this story gets real, and really fast.
The tots were good...damn good.
This morning, awakened with a desire to air fry something, I remembered the hash browns I bought when I purchased the Ninja. I put them in the tray at 400 for 12...yeah, I know.
Then i made myself an Americana, and waited it out.
I can’t even attempt to describe how delicious these hash browns were. But the added bonus? My entire place smelled like hash browns. The air fryer isn’t just for food preparation...it’s an incense burner.
Tonight, I must admit, things got a little crazy. I had a hankering for something fried, maybe something that was once a potato, and I just went for it. I turned on the Ninja, set it at 350 for 20, and dropped...get this...Krinkle Kut French Fries into the basket, pushed it in, and hit “play.”
I still shake my head thinking about it.
And how does this story end?
I would love to tell you that it ends with a delicious plate of golden brown Krinkle Kut French Fries cooked to perfection.
But no...that’s not how this story ends.
Because there is tomorrow. And I have other frozen foods in the freezer just waiting their chance. And there are stores...stores, I tell you, that sell even more frozen shit, like mushrooms, and cheese sticks, and onion rings, and ... and ... well, it’s limitless.
No, this story doesn’t end tonight with fries...it’s an epic tale that may go on as long as I’m alive to tell it, and my Ninja air fryer is alive to fry stuff to perfection.
I'm just a guy who finds the world an interesting place and likes to capture certain moments with a camera. They aren't for sale, or anything. I just like them. Well, usually. I've taken a lot of photos I don't like, as well.
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“Liberté” is how Josef described his life to me, distilling it down to a single word. As he said it a second time, he lifted his hands, palms up, toward the sky and faced the sun, smiling, “Liberté.”
The first time I heard Navajo spoken as a natural course of conversation was in Holbrook, Arizona. I was in an art gallery that sold various Indian art. The owner, Nakai, spoke to one of the locals, who dropped by, in his native tongue. He sold me a ring in English.
I find I lack a certain discipline on the road. The brunt, of which, is paid for by my digestive system...well, and my liver.
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