You were the first chips housed in a can.
I was a little girl on a road trip.
You traveled well. You didn’t crumble. Your canister packed nicely, no air-filled bag.
You fit perfectly on my tongue.
Your shape, so wavy, so inviting, so stackable.
Your thinness, dissolvable, like a communion wafer.
Sometimes, I would lick the salt off on either side, then crunch the dehydrated potato into bits.
Sometimes, I would stack you three at a time and chomp. Or four or five or six at a time, if I felt daring. Spilling crumbs onto my lap.
Your canister, so tall and narrow, and sharp-edged around the top.
I would cut my hand every time, reaching in, deeper, deeper, grabbing the chips rattling at the bottom.
But you always made it worth the pain.
Then tipping the near-empty chip canister into my mouth, letting the broken chips and salt fall from the bottom.
Another can dusted.
And there you were Mr. Pringles, with your smiling mouthless, moustached face, urging me to “Hydrate quickly with cherry Kool-Aid.”