I can remember the first time I ate a french fry. I’m sure I had one or two when I was a toddler, but in my memory, it happened when I was either four or five years old. It was thick compared to my little fingers and very potatoey and I just about fell in love with them. I also remember them coming from a place with a girl who had red pigtails. My parents brought it home for us to eat and it was a treat because my mom always cooked dinner. After that, I’m pretty sure I wanted a french fry every day.
(Who knows when my love for bean burritos happened. I’m sad it wasn’t as magical as a french fry.)
Fast forward 26 years or so. During my first trimester, I had dreams. Weird dreams. Dreams that revolved around Miller Lite. I couldn’t HAVE Miller Lite and my mind was laughing at me, teasing me, saying, “You got pregnant and now you can’t drink, so suck it up!”
Tuesday was our wedding anniversary (eight years, thank you). Almost one full year since my last cold Miller Lite. I ordered one with dinner. And let me tell you, it was like tasting that french fry all over again. The ice-coldness, the Miller Liteness, it was like I was tasting it for the first time (and this time really enjoying it). I wanted to chug it. But, we were having a somewhat classy dinner, on our anniversary with a baby sitting next to me. So I savored it, enjoying it with my dinner and cheesecake and that was it.
First Miller Lite post-baby. Tender.
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