Be Bag Fries. Watch someone's face when they find bag fries. Not the food. The face. That involuntary flush across the cheeks until composure returns, pure unguarded dopamine firing through the synapses at a frequency so high, even dogs can't hear it.. it's the place where people decide how to feel, but don't always reveal. I want to walk into rooms and be seen like that. Gratitude that cuts through the facade of the daily grind…deep enough to change a room doesn't come from counting blessings…but it does count the warm, crispy and usually extra salty pieces of potato love. Gratitude grows from reaching back into the paper fast food bags of enough ordinary days and finding something warm and waiting to be discovered. Try to find the delicious moments often enough, and it stops being a practice. It settles into your soul You carry it. The Gratitude. The Joy in ordinary small moments. Rooms feel it when you arrive. Be someone's bag fries. Warm, a bit crispy on the edges, and a little bit salty sometimes.