She’s absolutely right. Though I’d argue that it’s not so much that I eat them like a girl, as once they’re in my mouth I’m sure I’m the very picture of masculinity, pulverising Wheat Crunchies between my grinding molars with Schwarzeneggerian aplomb and swallowing with such gusto that the movement of my Adam’s apple can be measured on the Richter scale; it’s more the action of plucking them out of the bag and transferring them to my face that reveals an effeminate side.
There is a good reason for this. I love crisps, but I hate touching them. The intention therefore, is to transfer them from pack to mouth in such a way as to ensure that a minimum of flavour, grease and fragments of potato/maize/corn touch any part of me. To achieve this, I subconsciously employ the following tactic:1) Open the bag wide to ensure the best access to the contents (the bag can be gently manipulated at the base to move the contents nearer the top. This ensures minimum digit insertion)
2) Carefully remove a single crisp from the bag twixt the tips of thumb and forefinger with the lightest of touches
3) Ensure neighbouring fingers are well clear of the item, to avoid contamination (unfortunately, this looks like the potato snack equivalent of holding a little finger aloft while quaffing champagne)
4) Open mouth extremely wide and place crisp on tongue to avoid flavour touching lips; retract like miniature fleshy conveyor belt
5) Repeat
Monster Munch are the worst because loads of greasy flakes fall off them as you transport them tongueward. I can’t adequately convey the horror I feel watching our three-year-old work his way through a packet, thrusting a tiny hand already covered in soggy flakes and saliva into a crinkly bag, and emerging triumphant with a fistful of crispage which he then rams in the approximate area of his face where his open mouth waits.
Grooooo...
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