You know those silly meltdowns you have when you’re tired, hungry, hormonal, missing your fiance, and you just made 30 rehearsal dinner invitations that are all just slightly too big that they don’t fit in the envelopes you bought, and then you have to go back and trim a teeny-tiny sliver off each side so they will fit?

You know?

Yeah, that happened last night. So I did what anyone in that situation would do–ate my feelings. Tonight, it was in the form of sweet potato fries. I had some good ‘ole yams laying around in my pantry that I had totally forgotten about and were just begging to be cut into strips and fried to perfection.

I cut that little sucker into strips and tossed it with a splash of olive oil, a sprinkle of sugar, and a dash (or six) of salt.

I threw the fries-that-look-like-carrots onto a cookie sheet, and stuffed them into my teeny-tiny oven that said it was 450 degrees, but was probably twice that judging by the temperature it made my apartment. I sat by the fan and continued to curse the too-big invitations and the growing pile of black cardstock slivers that was growing beside me and listened to some Wilson Phillips while the fries sizzled away in the fiery inferno.

Fiery inferno indeed! 15 minutes later, I took them out to turn them over–can’t have half baked sweet potata’ fries, now. But as it turns out, they had had enough of the oven. 

Some more so than others…

At this point, I could have done two things: I could have spiraled into Meltdown # 2, crying about how I am going to be a wife in four weeks and can’t even make a decent batch of sweet potato fries. Or, I could blame it on my oven and eat around the crispy edges. 

I took the high road. And you know what? They were actually pretty good.

Take THAT, hormones!

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