About

Fritter is a greasy donut filled with apples and lard.   Or it is a term one uses when one is wasting time. It could also be a nickname. A nickname given to a girl who worked at a bakery one Christmas break and consumed many Apple Fritters as it were. Or was. Or would be. She got fat. Her uncle stopped by the bakery on his way home from work. The train station in town spit you out into the bakery. Well, you had to cross a street first. Anyway this uncle had not seen the girl in a while. But when he did. He smiled. Then he said: “Apple Fritter!” And it wasn’t his order.
So this girl had cousins who learned about the nickname. The cousins told the girl’s brothers. The brothers teased the girl. The more she protested, the more they called her Fritter.
She stopped working at the bakery and went back to college. But the next summer she got a job on an island off of Massachusetts. Working in …. a bakery. When the girl’s brothers got wind of this (and the cousins and uncles and aunts, et al) well, served her right.
The bakery served Apple Fritters, and cheddar cheese bread and donuts and cookies and cupcakes and well you know what happened to the girl.
But then she went back to college and didn’t get a job at the bakery. She finished school and moved back home for a month. She even jogged a couple times. Then, when her father asked her to pay rent, she moved to Oregon where two of her brothers were living. (Who pays rent to live at home?) When she got off the plane, they said: “Hey Fritter!” Although, in the girl’s mind, she didn’t feel Fritter-ish. Then they went to a party, and all the friends of the brothers said: “Hey Fritter!” When she ordered coffee in town, the barista called: “skim latte for Fritter”. When she tried to apply for a job at the taco place the boy at the counter said: “We’re not hiring, but I think the bakery downtown is…….Fritter.”
Like the fat that sticks to internal organs after many years of Fritter consumption the nickname stuck. The girl lost weight. The girl got married. The girl got pregnant. The girl got big. Really big. Fat bastard big. But, said the girl, “The Doctor said I could eat potato chips and lemonade if I felt woozy”. The girl ate potato chips every day. The girl retained water. The brothers saw pictures. “Fritter’s back,” they’d whisper to each other on the phone. They said Fritter’s voice got deeper. They attributed this to the weight gain. They said Fritter ate seven meatballs one night. The girl corrected, just six. The baby was born in August. After the baby was born the girl was in her room dressing to leave the hospital. She pulled out a black pencil skirt. The girl wanted to look stylish for her trip home. The girl tried to coax the skirt over miscellaneous parts and pieces. Like trying to put on jeans when your legs are wet. No budge. Mucho pudge. The nurse walked in and caught the girl. In flagrante. “I thought it would fit,” said the girl. “How much did you gain?” said the nurse in a tone, thought the girl, that was somewhat accusatory and a trifle harsh. “55 pounds,” said the girl. The nurse of course only gained 15 pounds with her pregnancy. The nurse was a bitch.
The girl lost the fifty-five pounds and when she was pregnant with number two and three she kept it to a reasonable 35 pounds. But they still called her Fritter.
By this time the girl did not care about the nickname. It was like an old shoe: ugly but comfortable.
One day the girl’s daughter asked her what her nickname was. The girl told her. The girl’s daughter now calls her Fritter.

This is just a story.