“What exactly are ‘Pommes Angleterre’?” Nena asked reading my handwritten sign.
“Proper chips,” I stated.
“Eh?”
“Like steak chips,” Con put in.
“Not exactly,” I countered, “you’ve had ‘em at mine.”
“Don’t remember,” Nen shrugged.
“You’ll see in a bit,” I sighed.
“I wanna know what’s wrong with good old German Pommes,” Con put in with a moan.
“Never said there was anything wrong with them but English chips are healthier.”
“Pull the other one Gab, don’t you fry them then?” Con queried.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“So?”
“Its the surface area of the chip,” I started.
“Now I know you’re making it up,” Nen opined.
“Seriously,” I went on, “for the same amount of chip there’s like fifty percent less fat.”
Con scoffed, “how’d you work that out clever clogs?”

Why me?

“Look i’ll show you,” I pulled one of my home made chips out of the bowl and pulled several Frites from the basket waiting to be fried. “okay so English chip, German chip,” I put them on the counter beside each other, “to get the same amount of potato I need like four German chips to one English,” I advised stacking the potato up.
“Right,” Nen agreed cautiously, "so how can the English be healthier?”
“Like I said, surface area, if I stuck the Pommes together into one big chip and fried them how much of each gets fried?”
“Well all of them of course.”
“Ut uh, only half the outside surface, the bits in the middle get cooked but not fried.”
“She’s right you know,” Con allowed.
“Told you.”
“So that's why the English eat them, because they’re healthier,” Nena posed.
I had to stifle a laugh, “don’t be daft!”
“So go on then oh fount of knowledge,” Con pursued.
“Brits don’t really go for crunchy chips, fat and squidgy are the best.”
“Get on with you,” Nena scoffed, “who’d want squidgy Frites? They must be awful, not cooked properly like that.”

Really, no taste some people.

“you’ll see,” I promised.

“Wotcha Gab,” Max offered with a cherubic grin.
“Max,” I allowed.
“Frikadel?”
“I suppose so, I’ll bring it out.”

Max is probably our most regular, er regular – not that he ever pays but he’s here pretty much every week day – well at least we get to see each other.

“Max is getting ‘Pommes Angleterre’ then?” Nen suggested as I grabbed a good handful of my carefully prepared potato and dropped it into the frying basket.
“Yup,” I agreed, “like it or lump it.”

I lowered the basket and the chips spat and hissed as the wet hit the oil but quickly settled down to a boiling mass as I selected a Frikadel and put it to finish on the hotplate.

“So the chips okay?”
“Fine,” he shrugged making short work of another golden finger of potato.
“Anything different about them?” I hinted.
He paused with another poised on his fork, “bit like the ones dad makes to go with the sea fish? Bit soft but alright though.”

Alright, well hardly a ringing endorsement but not rejection either.

“That’s sort of the point, they’re not fried to death, you can taste the Tater.”
He shrugged, “works for me.”
“Its how we do them in England, thought they’d go with the pies?” I suggested.
“Hmm, I can see that working, didn’t we have something like that at yours once?”
“Possibly,” I agreed, “they’re healthier too.”
“I can see that, not as much oil in them.”
“Back home they used to use animal fat to cook them.”
“I don’t think the Ahrtal is ready for that,” he grinned.
“You’re probably right.”

“So erm Max?”
“Hmm?” he allowed around the last chip.
“You about next Tuesday?”
He swallowed and wiped his mouth before replying, “probably, why?”
“You're invited to the family barbecue.”
“Cool, we can slip away after eating,” he grinned.
“No chance,” I sighed, “my Oma Bond and all the cousins are coming.”
“Really? And I’m invited? Are any of ‘em as gorgeous as you?”
“So’s Boris,” I advised ignoring his flannel, “they’re nearly all in nappies, I think Dad wants you to help with the barbecue.”
“You’re not cooking?”
“I’m sure I’ll end up doing something besides looking pretty.”
“You’re very good at that.”
“And there’s me thinking you were interested in my sporting prowess,” I sighed.
“That as well,” he hedged, “I guess I’d best help your dad then.”
“Have to warn you, Oma is a bit of, er a snob, please don’t mention titles and stuff.”
“If you insist your highness.”
“I mean it Max, she’d be unbearable.”
“Okay, sounds like she’d get on with Gran.”
“Your Gran is nothing compared to Nanna Bond.

“So?” Nena queried once I’d exchanged lippy with Max and returned to the kiosk.
“I’d say a reasonable endorsement.”
“They’d be better if they were crisper,” my friend suggested.
“Philistine,” I muttered under my breath.

“How many?” Con asked.
“Seven and all under ten.”
“Your family sure breed a lot.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, not exactly what I’d call it but strictly speaking she’s not wrong.
“So are they staying at yours?”
“They’ve rented some place up in Adenau thankfully, I don’t think I could put up with Nanna for more than a couple of hours, it’ll be ‘Gabrielle do this, fetch that’, we don’t exactly see eye to eye.”
“She’s not like your other Oma then?”
“Like chalk and cheese, Gramps is fun though. Last time I saw any of them was before we moved here.”
“So you’ve not met all your cousins then?” Nena suggested.
“I’ve got that joy to come.”
“I thought you liked babies?” Con snorted.
“At a distance!”
“What about Drea?”
“Well she’s different,” I stated.
“How so?” Nen pursued.
“Well I was there when she was born,” I mentioned, as if that made any difference.
“So you aren’t going to have Kinder?” Nena enquired.
“Not planning on it.”
“I wasn’t meaning like straight away,” my friend pointed out.
“And I mean like never,” I told them. I couldn’t help but be reminded of my recent scare up in Bonn – urgh!
“You’ll change your mind, I guarantee it,” Con predicted.

“So how did your ‘English’ chips go down?” Mum queried.
“Not exactly a raging success,” I admitted, “Max had some and me and the girls.”
“Maybe its the name?”
“Could be,” I allowed, “but they are English chips.”
“Not neccesarily the best selling feature in Germany.”
“But Wilhelm is always booked out for his English nights,” I pointed out.
“Different customers kiddo, maybe you need a different name?”
“Like?”
“i dunno, Jumbo Frites, potato fingers?”
“That’s it!”
“What, potato fingers?”
“Really Mum? no, healthy chips, Biopommes - Low fat, more taste!”

“How’re you gonna carry this lot?” Mand asked.
“Not sure,” I admitted surveying the pile of stuff on my bedroom floor. A pile of stuff that doesn’t even include my bedding or toiletries. “we’re taking our bikes.”
“Your school bike?”
“The Schauff? Yeah.”
“You could take less clothes,” she suggested.

To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what I should take. Mum and Dad would want me to take the kitchen sink, walking boots, full rain wear, wellies, oh and clothing for every occasion up to and including a royal reception. But honestly, its a few days chilling out with friends in a tent in the middle of summer.

“Yeah,” I agreed with a deep sigh.
Mand poked at the pile, “three swimsuits?”
“They don’t take much space.”
“Jeans?”
“It might get cold,” I temporised.
“But you’ve got like two pairs of capri’s, leggings and a long skirt too.”

I gave a little shrug.

“What are the others taking?”
“Dunno.”
“I bet they’re not taking half their wardrobe.”
“Its not half!”
“Okay, a quarter and heels? Camping? Really?”
I shrugged again, “we might go out to eat?”
Mand just shook her head.
“I need some different stuff Mand.”
“You’re only away a few days Gab, you can wash socks and pants, I bet there’s a laundry on the site.”
“Er yeah,” I allowed recalling Anna’s hard sell on the trip, laundry, restaurant, shop, swimming – compared to a lot of sites the Family Bond have stayed on over the years its like ten star, this Knaus Camping place. Maybe I’ll ask Con and the others what they’re taking – Mand’s right, this lot is overboard for less than a week away.

Maddy Bell © 16.11.2017