The funny thing about French fries is that when sprinkled with salt, they immediately emit a wonderfully enticing odor.
In sunshine, you can see the sheen of grease on their sides. A quick bite of a few, immediately after the paper boat holding them is thrust into eager hands, allows a brief episode of crunchiness.
But this is fleeting. French fries have split personalities. The crispiness yields to softer texture in a matter of minutes. The exposed sections bathed in succulent ketchup offer a different experience. Sweet, salty, almost doughy. It’s a symphony of flavors and physical sensations.
This is the only food I know where there is a race against time while consuming it. The steaming potato planks produce little pleasure when eaten cold.
Pizza was invented in Naples, which has a sprawling seaport. But beach pizza has been perfected in places where sunbathers bask in the sun and lovers hold hands with hearts beating rhythmically with the cadence of waves. In fact, the record indicates Salisbury Beach as the epicenter of this creation.
Thankfully, this delight formed on a thin square of flaky crust, sparsely layered with provolone cheese, suspended on a blanket of sweet tomato sauce, has emigrated to other beaches on the North Shore.
Some also command prominent sections in supermarket freezers. But honestly, it just doesn’t taste the same without the sound of ocean waves crashing in the background. Enjoyed piping hot from the oven, my favorite temperature though is 80 degrees. The same as the perfect beach day.
I can go on endlessly about Italian sausage merged with peppers and onions, steaming hot dogs, creamy roast beef sandwiches, mealy, sugared fried dough, salve-like ice cream and crispy cold beverages. And what about root beer floats; doughy, salted baked pretzels and fried clams complete with sand-filled bellies? World-renowned delicacies? “Non” as the French would say.
But I am at a tender juncture.
I am in mourning while driving by the shuttered food places on the beach crusted by snow and ice. My heart is yearning earnestly in anticipation of a return to lazy summer days. I wish to feel now the sensation of hot sand on my feet, refreshing breezes on my face and delightful morsels of food passing my lips.
And the sounds! Chattering teens, squealing children, cars honking, motorcycles roaring, music blaring, surf pounding, the screams of protesting gulls – oh, what wonderful cacophony transpires on a New England beach.
I miss it so.
These pulsating sensations are not totally dormant but held at bay in the creases of my imagination. They are faint but distinguishable. This is smoldering melancholy. True love, unrequited.
I can’t imagine how terrible the seagulls must feel this time of year. It’s a shame they can’t hibernate like bears and avert these insufferable conditions.
But thankfully, the winter solstice has passed. Every day, there is a march toward adding minutes of sunlight to the clock.
Therefore, not in the-too-distant future, boards covering the store windows will melt like snow. Fryolators will rev up like engines at a NASCAR event. The wafts from grills will mix with ocean air again.
Then, only then, unshackled from the imprisonment of winter, I’ll join bleary-eyed waves of beachgoers reverting to familiar shores like repatriated foreigners. We shall seek solace and renewal while clinging to our towels along with fries, pizza and iced drinks.
We will be like pilgrims with religious talismans, clasped firmly in our hands, experiencing redemption while in a warm embrace of dazzling sunlight.
Joe D’Amore writes from Groveland. You can reach him at damorecos@gmail.com.l