Oh, Curly Fries – You Understand Me

Yesterday, I went in for a surgery of a rather personal nature. Having never undergone surgery before, I was rather nervous. I’ve never experienced general anesthesia, and I expected something like a near-death-experience.

But this post isn’t about surgery. It’s about Arby’s sauce.

To psych myself out for surgery, I decided to employ a reward tactic.

Sunday night, as I fell asleep, I asked my husband, “After surgery, can we get curly fries?”

He laughed. “Yes,” he said.

“And roast beef sandwiches?”

“Beef and cheddar,” he said.

I was starting to get excited. “And Arby’s sauce??”

“Irresponsible amounts of Arby’s sauce.”

“Oh, good,” I said, and settled down to sleep.

On the way home from the hospital yesterday, we stopped at Arby’s and got a couple beef and cheddar sandwiches, two large orders of curly fries, and Arby’s sauce. Irresponsible amounts of Arby’s sauce. In the drive-thru, Ethan asked the cashier how much Arby’s sauce she was allowed to give us.

She held up as much as she could hold in two hands. “Is this good?”

We agreed emphatically, and she handed us a small paper bag loaded with the packets. We probably have about two whole bottles’ worth of Arby’s sauce in the fridge right now, in small serving sizes. Irresponsible amounts of Arby’s sauce. I’m so excited, my toes are wiggling. I will never have a boring sandwich again. ♦

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