Page 1 of The Wild Card
CHAPTER 1
Collin
As it turns out,you can deep-fry just about anything. But maybe some thingsshouldn’tbe deep-fried.
“Whatisthis?” I ask as my younger brother, Pat, shoves a paper plate in my face.
He speaks around a mouthful. “Fried butter,” he says.
At least, that’s what Ithinkhe said. But I must have heard him wrong. I stare down at the UFO—unidentifiable fried object—on the paper plate.
Surely it’s not …
“Butter?”
Pat’s eyes roll back in his head like he’s in culinary heaven. When what he’s actually doing is eating deep-fried fat while standing in what’s normally an empty field in the Texas countryside that has now been transformed into the Sheet Cake Festival.
“Mm-hm—butter. Try it, man.”
I have so many questions. First and foremost—why?Why would anyone think to frybutter?But also—HOW?
Butter melts at even warm temperatures. How did it remain solid while submerged in hot oil? And if I decide to satisfy my curiosity, am I going to scald the inside of my mouth with boiling butter when I bite into it?
IF.
IfI bite into it. And at this point, it’s a very big if.
Although … Pat does seem unscalded andverycontent with his. Maybe there’s something to this fried butter thing.
“Eat up, bro. After this, we’ll get fried Nutella,” Pat says. “And, of course, the fried sheet cake. As the owners of the town of Sheet Cake, it’s basically an obligation. And is it even a Sheet Cake Festival until you’ve had deep-fried Texas Sheet Cake? Scratch that.” Pat swallows and pauses dramatically, then licks powdered sugar from his lips. “Have you evenlivedif you haven’t had deep-fried Texas Sheet Cake?”
Debatable.
I mean, don’t get me wrong—both butter and Nutella are top-tier foods. I could eat my weight in Texas Sheet Cake—if I were ignoring things like my heart health. To take these foods, batter them, and drop them into a deep fryer—I can sense my arteries clogging just hearing about it.
“What is that … thing?” My older brother, James, appears, scowling down at the lump on my plate.
“It’s fried butter,” I tell him. “Allegedly.”
Pat has shoved some other kind of UFO into his mouth and mumbles what sounds likeIt’s delicious; you should try it.
Or possiblyIt’s suspicious; don’t try it, which is my current sentiment.
“No.” James crosses his arms and glares at the fried butter on my plate like it’s personally offended him.
Pat swallows, then glares at James. “Buzzkill.”
“Voice of reason,” James corrects, then grabs my plate and tosses it in the nearest garbage can.
“Hey!” both Pat and I say at the same time.
“I was gonna eat that,” I say.
Maybe, I don’t add.
Now that my older brother has thrown it away, the effect is instant. Ineedto eat the fried butter.
Ah, the plight of the middle child: if the youngest says yes, don’t agree too quickly. If the oldest says no, it’s an absolute must.
