I love McDonald’s French fries. I’ve tried frites from Paris, chips from London, and poutine from Montreal; still nothing can come close to beating the addictive shoestrings that hail from the internationally recognized chain. And I know you may be thinking, ‘What makes you so confident that McDonald's fries are the best?’Don't you worry— I’m prepared to justify my view due to encountering numerous squabbles over this divisive proclamation. Despite collecting concrete data that ranges from the chain’s method of par-frying to their freezing technique, my most compelling evidence lies within the memories that materialize with every bite of a piping hot fry. 

My father’s always been a creature of routine. I’d repeatedly been assured that routine would help with his anxiety, as the recovery process of his brain injury involved a strict schedule of physical, cognitive, and speech therapy. Routine became a habit. Even now, two decades later, every day, hour, and minute of his life follows a meticulous schedule that suits him. My father is the utmost particular, especially when it comes to his meals. On certain days of the week he’ll eat eggs or oatmeal, while on weekends it’s cereal— Raisin Bran. Although the highlight of an otherwise monotonous routine remained constant: Saturday lunch has always been reserved for McDonald’s. 

Going to McDonald’s on Saturdays became a tradition that stemmed from nowhere in particular. My father would take us for a celebratory burger after my soccer games, a sandwich to fuel both my brothers before their football practices, or just a quick lunch to bestow upon us Gremlins since he couldn’t cook. As the years passed and we got older, my brothers gradually opted to stay home or prioritize their packed social calendars. So that left me, the youngest, wanting to make sure my father was not alone in his tradition. I also must admit, I’d grown accustomed to my weekly meal; a large order of fries and a medium Sprite. 

McDonald’s represented a chance for my father and me to bond. Usually it was my mother carting me around whilst my father worked, but she didn’t have Saturday off from work. He did. We would always leave the house at eleven in the morning, giving him enough time to come back before the Auburn game. The drive wasn’t long, but it gave us enough time to catch up on one another’s week. I’d tell him about school, he’d tell me about work. It was also my one chance to get a hold of the aux cord— something my brothers would never let me do. I bestowed upon my father the gift of One Direction, Taylor Swift, and the Jonas Brothers while he taught me about Queen, Nirvana, and Billy Joel. It was a way of educating one another; I showed him the new era of music and he brought me back to his teenage years. Although my teeny bopper music might not have stuck with Papa, his classic 80’s songs still live in my heart. Even nowadays when I’m living away from home and only get to see my family every so often, listening to those songs brings a sense of nostalgia and comfort to me. It brings me back to those afternoons spent learning fun facts and trivia about different musicians and bands.

Some may argue that deeming McDonald’s fries to be the best is rash, and that memories aren’t a good enough reason to make such a proclamation. Some may say that McDonald’s fries are the worst since they aren’t freshly cooked on site. Some may say that McDonald’s fries aren’t good because they are oversalted. And some may say that McDonald’s fries aren’t the best because they’ve had better fries. But I believe that memories exert a strong influence on what one deems good or bad. Take food aversions for example. My friend once had a bad experience with a mango and ended up with food poisoning, and even now after twelve years— she refuses to eat anything with mango. Not because of the taste or texture, but because of the memories she now associates with the tropical fruit. The connection between food and feeling is a common occurrence for many, where times or experiences cause a sentiment towards certain foods. Such as Tollhouse cookies, the pink frosted treats which make me feel nostalgic for elementary school. Or any seafood, which makes me turn green because I ate one too many fish sticks when I was four. Memories can aid in the taste of certain foods— making it good or bad. And for me, memories make McDonald’s fries unbeatable. 

Fries might seem like an odd thing to cherish, but they remind me of better times. Times when I was little and all I had to worry about was whether I was going to be home in time to see the latest Disney show. Time passed and more stressors began to pile onto me, causing me to fall into a hole of darkness that seemed inescapable. No matter how rough life became, at 11am on Saturdays, for just a short moment, I would feel as if I was pulled out, and allowed to breathe in the brilliant light that was my father’s never-ending positivity and faith. 

Sometimes I struggle with the fact that my father and our relationship is different compared to the stereotypical father-daughter dynamic. It took me some time to realize that my family was more atypical compared to my peers. For a while it made me miss what could have been. But my father is and always will be a man that I can always count on to make me smile and laugh. Whether it be him amusing my odd hypotheticals with some of his own, his spot-on Chewbacca impression, or the times he’d go out of his way to take me to get French fries because he knew that I looked forward to it— he’s always been there in his own way. Which makes me cherish every moment I have with him. Thinking back to the times spent with my father in that silver Honda minivan, the memories seem to be gilded— just like the fries I’d snack on. That is why McDonald’s fries are the best: The golden memories I carry with them.