Here is the perfect French fry: fresh potatoes, cut thin, fried up in a very deep basket for a very long time, until perfect, golden, perfectly golden and extra crispy. Salted with a heavy hand, in a pile on the side of your plate, glistening with grease and a crust of sparkly salt. You pick up the glass bottle of ketchup, tap out a generous puddle, and eat your fries hot, and fresh, dipping them one by one and enjoying the contrast of cool and tangy tomato with the hot and crispy, greasy saltiness of the potatoes. And that, there, is a happiness. 

They don't have happiness in Utah. Well, there's some happiness. And there are tasty fries. But somewhere in this state, at some point, someone decided ketchup wasn't enough--what French fries needed was an unholy combination of ketchup, mayonnaise, spices, "and other flavorings." What French fries needed was its own special sauce. "Let's call it--fry sauce!" they cried, and the first time I encountered it, I cried a little, too. Fry sauce is a regional delicacy, invented here in Utah, and this singular fact says so much about my new home state, I don't even know where to start. Send Heinz. Please. --Anne