Has there been any poetry written about fried food? An Ode to the Onion Ring? There should be. There really should be poetry and music and art made in honor of the fry-o-later.
Last night I did it, but not over-did it at Woodman’s. If you don’t know this place, you’re not from Boston, because it is the Kim Kardashian of these parts, but with talent. It’s a no-frills oversized clam shack with a pick-your-own-lobster stand, and fried food galore. Being that I am not really a seafood person, you’d think this wouldn’t appeal to me, but oh, did I mention the fries and onion rings? Maybe not. I am sure I could eat those things until I cholesteroled myself into an early (but tastefully decorated) grave. And while I had a grilled chicken sandwich (which is really delish), I gobbled down my share of Peter’s fried scallops, which were as good as The Bite on the Vineyard, the Holy Grail of fried seafood. And I lingered over every perfectly done fry and crunchy onion ring. And while I usually have to be rolled out of this place, and treat everyone to non-stop belly achin’ about how full I am, I left pleasantly full and super satisfied last night (maybe it was because I didn’t get lobster, which I actually do like, although it is seafood, but didn’t feel like last night, thus avoiding all that butter).
So, oh Gods of gratitude, we thank you for deep fryers everywhere. And particularly those in Essex, who take perfectly healthy food and turn it into heart stopping fare. It’s worth every sublime calorie.