Real men eat chips

Every evening, when my husband Max comes home pummeled and battered from a full day of carpentry, he showers, applies bandaids to his newly acquired injuries, and prepares to make himself a snack. With the same laser focus he uses to craft fine furniture and crown molding, he takes a bowl of just the right volume, lays down a load-bearing base of pretzels, erects a retaining wall of tortilla chips, and proceeds to raise a vertical tower of puffs, crinkles, curlies, ridges and sticks until a perfect height-to-width ratio is achieved.

The first time I witnessed this I was baffled by my husband’s overzealous attention to detail, and I couldn’t help but ask why he didn’t just dump it all in a bigger bowl. Then I’d eat too much, he explained. Not exactly a satisfactory answer, but one I resigned myself to being content with, for Max’s downtime is precious to him. Letting go of the day’s rigors, stresses and contusions, he unwinds by losing himself in two of his favorite things: music and crispy, salty snacks. Who was I to question his method?

In fact, when it comes to salty snacks, it seems even the most levelheaded of men regards his chip ritual to be an essential part of his emotional wellbeing. Take a stroll down the snack aisle in any supermarket, and you’ll likely find at least one guy paused in a state of deep contemplation, transfixed by the overwhelming variety of options. Chances are he’s not considering sodium content or the downsides of saturated fats. Rather, I imagine he is having a private conversation with himself, deeply concerned how this decision might affect the quality of his life. Maybe he’s had a rotten day with his kids, or he’s on the outs with his boss. Should he stick with comforting old favorites or try something new, perhaps running the risk that he might not like it? That’s when anxiety sets in. You might notice a fine sheen of sweat forming on his brow or the nervous nibbling of a thumbnail. Further complicating the situation could be a significant other standing nearby, growing impatient, causing the desperate individual to reach for the first thing at hand, such as a bag of Fritos, or God forbid, pork rinds. You watch as he puts the bag in the cart, his face a mask of regret, and a look that says it all; his night is ruined.

Some guys, like my husband, consider variety to be the spice of life, loathe to repeat a flavor for even a day or two. He keeps a rotation going, hop-skipping from nacho cheese to jalapeno lime, from pretzel rods to sticks, veggie sticks to root vegetable crisps. There are others who adhere to a single brand of a single flavor, strictly Kettle salt and vinegar, or Herr’s sour cream and onion. But backing oneself into a corner this way is ill-advised. Imagine the heartbreak when some hapless guy finds out his one and only Cheetos pizza flavor has been discontinued! What then? Plain Cheetos? He might as well eat an apple.

Although my husband retains a good measure of flexibility on this front, his needs are no less critical. I give him a wide berth when he approaches the pantry, freshly showered and bandaged, ready for his nightly moment of zen. What I find most remarkable is that no matter how insignificant the task, Max puts his all into it. A bowl of chips is not just a bowl of chips; it’s a reflection of how he approaches every task, every challenge. Nothing less than perfection will do. But underneath that strict adherence to excellence, there’s still just a regular guy who wants to sit on the couch in his sweats with a bowl of chips, and imagine, for just a little while, that all is right with the world.