So, my sister just flew the Chicago coop, back home to England, after nearly a month of non-stop fun. We squeezed every last drop out of the gorgeous Chicago summer—attending shows, chilling by the lake, and dining out like it was an Olympic sport. And let me tell you, no meal was complete without the inevitable “please add chips (fries) to my order,” as if it was a UK law. Always Toni, not me. WHY??? I mean it didnt stop me eating them. The whole time, I couldn’t help but feel waves of nostalgia both in a good way and in a bad way.
Why am I telling you all this? Well, leaving Britain always tugs at my heartstrings and adds a rumble to my stomach. It’s not just where I was born; it’s my essence, my core, my identity. Britain is my family, my old friends who’ve seen me through every awkward phase – from the spotty-faced youth to the slightly less spotty adult. It’s the rolling countryside, charming towns, and that inexplicable British way of life that no other place on earth can replicate. Even the simple “Hiya!” from a passerby, delivered with a genuinely warm smile, makes me feel right at home. Of course, there’s also that delightful British reserve, which seems to slip a bit when I return with a slightly more Americanized attitude.
Now, besides the ache in my heart, there’s also the slight expansion of my waistline. No, I’m not talking about the 40 quid extra for my overweight suitcase. I’m talking about the pounds that have latched onto my belly and other stress-inducing areas. Thank goodness airlines don’t charge for personal poundage. Can you imagine? “Ma’am, that’ll be £50 for the extra 5lbs you’ve packed on since entering the country.” Let’s not dwell on that horrifying thought. Instead, I work to focus on squeezing back into my slightly snugger wardrobe, thanks to an intense diet and the occasional prayer.
The true villain in this tale? Chips (or fries, for my American pals). They accompany every meal – breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even the elusive supper. I might bravely order a side salad, but someone at the table will inevitably get chips, and resisting them is simply not in my DNA. It’s impossible! I’ve attempted this Herculean task many times. Whether they’re skinny, fat, long, short, or curly, these golden delights, dipped in a bit of mayo and ketchup with a sprinkle of salt and vinegar, are bites of naughty, unforgiving heaven.
This is the primary downfall of my trips home. and now I fear my sisters trips to me! Perhaps the biggest downfall of all, as I never consider the consequences while I’m devouring those glorious British chips.
But hey, the happy memories make my extra pounds totally worth it… I think?
