As I sat down on the sofa in our living room, I noticed the potato
chip under the coffee table. It was morning. A Tuesday. I had eaten a
bowl of chips the previous night while watching television. The lone
chip had likely fallen from the bowl. I placed the cup of tea I was
carrying on a coaster on the coffee table, and reached down for the
potato chip.
The chip was about the size and shape of the bowl of a tablespoon and was finely ridged – as opposed to wavy, broad crinkles – with an occasional blister, created during the frying process, disrupting the neat parallel lines. I counted sixteen peaks and seventeen valleys in all.
When I looked at it closer, in the dim, morning winter light coming through the window, I could see that it wasn’t the same pale brown colour throughout. There were slight burned areas around its middle and its edges. The chip also had a pronounced curve so that if you held it down on one end and let it go, it began rocking back and forth like a see-saw – for a few seconds at least.
I took a sip of my tea and picked up the chip. It felt furry from all the flavouring powder – an unpleasant sensation. It also felt taut, and fragile. I placed it back down on the coaster and positioned a finger on each of its raised curled ends. If I applied even the smallest downward pressure the chip would split in two or more pieces.
I kept my fingers on the edges and slid it around the coaster. It made a surprisingly loud scratching sound. When I finished drinking my tea, I took the chip to the kitchen, opened the garbage can, and threw it on top of a heap of old coffee grounds and a tangle of potato peels from yesterday's supper.
It was easy to spot the light brown
arch against the grey of the living room carpet. The chip lay between
two small piles of books under the table, so I had to turn my hand
sideways and fish it out, using my index and middle finger in a scissor
manoeuvre. I set down the still intact potato chip on another coaster
and looked at it while I drank my tea.
It was a new
flavour from the manufacturer, sour cream, onion and chilli, and last
night was the first time I had eaten it. The chip on the coaster was
speckled with red, white, and green flakes, each about the size of a
period, though there was no uniformity in the shape of the flakes. The
red was chilli, the white, likely, salt but I was unsure of what the
green could be.
In the middle of the chip was a grey
scar – a long strand of carpet fuzz. I reached over, pinched it off the
chip and blew it from my fingers. The carpet fuzz descended slowly back
down to the floor.
The chip was about the size and shape of the bowl of a tablespoon and was finely ridged – as opposed to wavy, broad crinkles – with an occasional blister, created during the frying process, disrupting the neat parallel lines. I counted sixteen peaks and seventeen valleys in all.
When I looked at it closer, in the dim, morning winter light coming through the window, I could see that it wasn’t the same pale brown colour throughout. There were slight burned areas around its middle and its edges. The chip also had a pronounced curve so that if you held it down on one end and let it go, it began rocking back and forth like a see-saw – for a few seconds at least.
I took a sip of my tea and picked up the chip. It felt furry from all the flavouring powder – an unpleasant sensation. It also felt taut, and fragile. I placed it back down on the coaster and positioned a finger on each of its raised curled ends. If I applied even the smallest downward pressure the chip would split in two or more pieces.
I kept my fingers on the edges and slid it around the coaster. It made a surprisingly loud scratching sound. When I finished drinking my tea, I took the chip to the kitchen, opened the garbage can, and threw it on top of a heap of old coffee grounds and a tangle of potato peels from yesterday's supper.