Snack King and Son

   A few weeks back I made the seven-hour drive to go visit my dad for a couple of days. Yes, the old man’s old man is still alive and kicking. My mom passed away in ‘17, so Dad’s a bachelor now. Well, technically. He has a girlfriend. But that’s a whole other story. She’s a redhead. And we all know the problem with redheads.
 
   Anyone who knows my dad knows this: He loves a good snack. Give him a tin of salty peanuts or some crackers & cheese, dial in a spaghetti western or Fox News on the tube, and you’ve got yourself one happy camper.

    Just off the kitchen, my dad has a big walk-in pantry. You should see it. It’s a helluva thing. It’s the kind of pantry you’d want to have in your bomb shelter. You walk in there and on one side you have wall-to-wall pegboard. This is for hanging tools and brooms and dustpans and also some kitcheny things with handles, like strainers and soup ladles. All along the other side and the back wall are open shelves, floor to ceiling. And these shelves are packed to the gills, mostly with canned goods and – you guessed it – snacks. A good number of the canned goods in there ought to be classified as snacks too. Think sardines and kippers and Vienna sausages and whatnot.  
 
   When my mom was alive you could find real food in the pantry. Things like oatmeal and rice and onions and squash. But the Snack King has taken it over now.
 
   One afternoon during my visit, my dad announced that he had scheduled himself a haircut. So I was left alone in the house for about an hour while he was out. Around noontime, I thought I’d put together a lunch that’d be ready when he got back.  So into the pantry I went.
 
   In there, two cans of ready-to-go chili caught my eye. I snagged ‘em. Then I spotted a giant bag of Fritos. Now, these weren’t your ordinary Fritos. These were Fritos “Scoops,” the more robust variant of the celebrated corn chip, prized by your more discerning snackers. I snagged it too. Perfect for scooping up chili. I also grabbed a can of Mandarin oranges. I now had the building blocks of a hearty, father-and-son lunch. Or so I thought.
 
   I found a can opener and a cooking pan, and got the chili going on the stovetop. I emptied the oranges into a neat-looking Pyrex serving bowl that I found in the cabinet behind some coffee mugs. And then I opened the giant bag of Fritos. It actually kind of ‘popped’ when I opened it.  
 
   Hindsight’s 20/20. I should have realized that there was something not quite right about those Fritos. One big clue was that the bag was bloated and firm like one of those foil birthday balloons. Thus the pop. Happy Birthday! But my brain was off somewhere else, and I went ahead and reached into the newly popped bag, grabbed one of those little rascals, and threw it right into my mouth.  What happened next was one of the oddest things I’ve ever experienced.
 
   Now, I’m no corn chip connoisseur, but I know enough to know that a corn chip ought not to dissolve instantly when it hits your tongue like an eco-friendly packing peanut dropped into a puddle of rainwater. And the after-taste ought not to remind you of gasoline. But that’s exactly what I experienced with this corn chip. I immediately scrambled to find an expiration date on the bag, but I swear I couldn’t find one. Weird. Maybe they were Russian bootlegs. No matter. I knew those Fritos had gone way, way off the rails. And I had apparently just let one dissolve straight into my bloodstream.
 
   While gargling and washing my mouth out and trying hard not to panic, I got to thinking about a few things.
 
   I thought about Monsanto and other makers of Franken-food and how it’s probably not safe to eat any of that stuff, ever – even when it’s not expired. I thought about how my dad with his fragile ticker really shouldn’t be anywhere near industrial foodstuff. I thought about what my mom would say and do if she ever found a bloated bag of snack chips in her pantry. Heads would roll, for sure. I thought about an old friend of mine, Jerry, who worked for a big chemical outfit that specialized in food-grade oils. He used to tell me all sorts of horror stories. For example, here’s a zinger: Jerry told me that all processed vegetable oil is rancid by default, and that unsaturated fats, rancid or not, are terrible for the human body because they basically run amok in there, robbing us in order to get their jollies. He was an industry insider, so I always trusted that he knew what he was talking about.
 
   Come to think of it, Jerry’s girlfriend was also a redhead. I feel like this is important somehow.
 
   Anyway, when the Snack King got back from his haircut, he and I sat down for lunch and we had ourselves a good laugh about the Fritos. It turns out we didn’t even miss them. The chili was fine all by itself. He said, “I just can’t believe you opened up that old bag of Fritos and ate some of ‘em, son. I found that bag out in the camper a while back. I bet it’s been in the pantry for, oh, ‘bout three years.” He paused and then added, “I guess I’ll probably hafta throw ‘em out now.”
 
   I thought about replying sarcastically, “You think?!” and asking my dad why the hell he had a three-year-old bag of chips in the pantry. But I bit my tongue. “I didn’t eat a bunch of ‘em or anything. I only ate one, dad,” I corrected. “I can’t seem to get the gasoline taste out of my mouth.”
 
   “Gasoline, eh? Well how many'd you eat? You know, most people’d have enough horse sense to stop eating 'em after just one.” Dad shook his head and chuckled. “Have some more chili, son. That’ll do the trick.”
 
 – O.M. Kelsey