Eating Cheddar Sour Cream Ruffles at the End of the World

Welcome to #EmerilHive, a weeklyish (lol) newsletter by Becca Thimmesch, now based in the UK.

Well folks, another month has gone by in which my prion-disease riddled brain (I’m doing a new bit where I tell people I have Mad Cow) has failed to produce anything remotely close to a newsletter. You see, between the last EH and this one, I sold most of my stuff, moved out of my cherished apartment in tree-lined north Dupont, packed up what remained and, with much misplaced faith in the postal service, moved to the United Kingdom. Things are both wonderful and horrible: I now live in an idyllic English rowhouse with a vined garden, but most of my most-prized items were shattered in transit, and my Le Creuset dutch oven and chef’s knives, are … lost? I’m actually not sure.

But that’s neither here nor there. I’ve returned, dear Hive members, because I’d like to talk about something very important to me.

I’d like to talk about Cheddar Sour Cream Ruffles.

Are you familiar? I should hope so.

Cheddar Sour Cream Ruffles were, I assume, created by the world’s top scientists to be the perfect food. While all chips are good, few have the structural integrity of those glorious ridges, even fewer can match the deep, umami richness of that artificial cheddar flavoring. None, I daresay, can couple all of that with the reassuring, childlike wonder of dayglow orange powdered fingers.

I’m a known chip lover. I have my favorites, but I’ll pretty much enjoy any ole’ bag of chips, a fact I’ve always been made to feel bad about. You see, I was one of those kids in the 99th percentile for height and weight, those big-boned, chubby kids who learned from a very young age that they should be made to feel shame and guilt for eating the things they enjoyed.

But here’s the thing: I don’t actually feel bad, and you can’t make me.

Well, that’s not true. It used to be that you could, in fact, make me feel bad very easily. But I’m working on that.

I’ve developed a personal philosophy that I like to call Just Eat the Fucking Chips. It’s fairly simple: you eat whenever you’re hungry and sometimes you eat chips. You don’t have to have hit ten thousand steps the moment prior, nor do you need to do a juice cleanse for three days afterwards. It’s food, it tastes good, and you’ll be okay.

Sometimes, your body needs stuff. Well, your body always needs water and carbs and protein and lipids and vitamins and whatever, but sometimes your body needs STUFF—like a sludgy iced coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts or sour straws or Cheddar Sour Cream Ruffles. Stuff that makes you feel good.

For me, Rebecca, there’s truly no better stuff than Cheddar Sour Cream Ruffles. And rarely in my life have I needed stuff as much as I have needed it this year.

In April and May, when the bits were still fun and I was barely forcing my participation in polite society, Cheddar Sour Cream Ruffles were central to an elaborate apertivo hour, one to mark the transition between sitting at my desk and sitting on my couch. I’d pair Ruffles, anchovies, and olives with bitter Italian spirits mixed with soda, opening my windows so my neighbors could enjoy the smooth sounds of Louis Prima with me.

Of course, things deteriorated. The apertivo hours went by the wayside, as I no longer had any interest in drinking alone. The computer hours and the couch hours blurred together, and I was no longer plucking my eyebrows or cooking for my Instagram followers. More than once, I ate a bag of Cheddar Sour Cream Ruffles for dinner.

Like, a big bag.

And I believe firmly and deeply that was what I needed at the time. And I’m still here, still getting through the days, still a size 10, etc.

Here’s roughly the point in the essay where I ask myself, Rebecca, what the fuck are you talking about?

Which is a good question.

Devotees of my brand may remember that I now study food policy, which, it seems, is roughly 35% comprised of making kids feel horrible about themselves.

Scholars, wonks, et al seem to be asking themselves: how can we ensure that children have lifelong body image issues? How can we promote disordered relationships with food at all levels of society?

So much energy is put into labelling foods as ‘healthy’ or ‘unhealthy,’ ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ Chips—or crisps, as they are called here—are perhaps the ultimate ‘bad’ food. Chips are the villains of nutrition infographics, of articles investigating chubby schoolchildren. They’re the bad side to a sandwich, foiled by the ever-cherished apple.

Chips are finding themselves banished from cafeterias, from vending machines and meal deals. They’re 4 (or 5) letter words in childhood nutrition circles, the metonym of all that threatens the welfare of our precious future leaders.

But chips are, actually, very good. And all the forbiddance, the demonization and the shame associated with them throughout my life has only ever made me want them more. And what’s more, it made me hate myself. It made me feel bad, made me want to eat in secret. It made me agonize over those tiny, inconsequential decisions: chips or a salad?

My boyfriend went to get me a packet of these mysterious British NSAIDs yesterday, the only ones that make anything resembling a dent in my period pain. He also produced a bag of chips, one of those gorgeous European flavors you never see stateside. It was a tiny, Euro-sized bag, but each individual chip was a gift.

I hope you’ll all take a minute today to appreciate the stuff, the dumb stuff that you just simply need sometimes. The pair of animal crackers that come with a Tryst latte, the second, incomprehensible milkshake that comes with the milkshake you ordered, those gingersnaps they sell at World Market once the clock turns Christmas. Chips of all flavors and styles, in all bag sizes. Mostly Cheddar Sour Cream Ruffles.

Emeril Update

Lordy Lordy, look who’s 61!! Emeril confirmed Libra, folks. Do with that what you will.