I love food.

It loves me. I know it does. It doesn’t have to say it, but I swear I hear it calling my name. It’s at a subliminal pitch that not even dogs or bats can hear. It whispers so sweetly in a tone only audible to my once-shrinking fat cells.

Naaaa-ncy. Naaaaa-ncy. Forget that Weight Watchers thing. Points shmoints.

We looove you. Come baaaack! Come baaaack!

You know you want us.

You deserve us.

You’ve earned us.

Normally I can resist. Usually I can silence their calls with an apple or a glass of water or even a handful of carrots.

Until these came into my life.

I found these on my last trip to New York City. They were at a corner bodega. Perfect for a late night snack after a night on the town. A light snack, right?

Oh. dear. God. These things are so good. When I got back from my trip, my eyes scanned the chip aisle of every grocery store I visited in giddy hope that they had traveled westward.

Week after week went by. I gave up. Like corner hot dog stands and kinishes, I had written them off as a legendary NYC treat to remember.

And then…they were here…and then they were here…and I bought them.

And I ate them.

And ate them.

I’ve cleared an entire bag in one sitting.

With a diet coke, mind you, but in one frigging sitting.

I don’t even do that for my “stranded on a desert island” food – Cool Ranch Doritos.

I should feel guilty, but I don’t…well, sort of.

They are not fried. They’re not even baked. Apparently they’re popped. They’re not rice- or corn-based though. They’re potato chips made crispy through heat and pressure. Don’t ask me how it works, but thanks to their Willy Wonka-eqsue methodology, it works. They can have all the oompa loompas they need (As long as they are engaging in fair labor practices, right?)

Three 120-calorie servings in a bag. Four grams of fat per serving. Not necessarily health food, per se, but there’s certainly worse stuff out there.

And oh dear god, they are soooo good.