I’ve been chasing the sound of friction a knife makes as it skims a seared surface or when teeth bite into hot, crispy potatoes. The sharp crunch comes at the beginning and end of every YouTube and TikTok cooking tutorial. Joshua Weisman seems to do it in every video he makes. Food content creators always complain that we can’t smell what they assure us is delightful cooking. But we cannot deny the sound their ASMR mics pick up when they crunch into those viral roasted potatoes. I blame them for my obsession.
I’ve tried countless times to make oven-roasted potatoes at home. Each time ends in soggy failure. Whether I parboil them first, use all the high smoke point oils, or cut the potatoes into perfect shapes, the result remains the same. My teeth bite through the skin with little to no resistance. Despite the constant defeat, I refuse to give up or use the air frier, which, in my opinion, amounts to cheating.
Sometimes, when I’m frustrated and resentful, I wish the creators cut the roofs of their mouths on their super crispy taters. Other times, I over-intellectualize the problem. Crispy potatoes are a symptom of a deeper problem in society. We’re always searching for something harder and rougher to sink our teeth into. But that thought feels silly and slightly overly sexual. I retreat with soggy hashbrowns into a corner.
Or, I turn to social analysis. Influencers in search of engagement convinced us that crunchier is better. But what if texture isn’t everything? Now I’m bugging because no one in their right mind thinks mashed potatoes are better than fried. And our health-conscious societies gave up deep frying. We look to create snappy dehydrated skins using the oven now. Diet culture brought this on!
In December, I waited each day for a British content creator to upload a new way to make crispy potatoes for Christmas. (Why are they always from the UK?) I hoped the Grinch stole her oils and butter, maybe the flaky salt, too.
Then, denial turns to anger. “Well, the problem isn’t my cooking techniques. It’s my pan. If my pans were shinier, wider, flatter, more durable, higher quality, the crunch would come.” I’ve spent hours some nights holding my family’s bellies hostage, hoping another 5 minutes might do the trick.
Anger turns to acceptance, and I see that maybe the crisp will come when I am least looking for it. In a Zen-like trance, I’ll cut my knife lengthwise to take a bite and hear a sound like a kindergartener learning to pronounce a C.
I’m thinking too hard about crispy potatoes. I know it’s not that deep. Yet the shattering sound of a hot fried potato is instant comfort. There’s nothing else to say, no profound or earth-shattering realization or pithy prose. They’re just fried potatoes.