I have this thing with crack cakes

::After my last rant, The topic of Twinkies was requested. I hope you can relate to some of these fun memories with a little tongue and cheek. I did derail a few times, per usual. Let me know if you’d like me to cover something else – I find these little writing assignments kinda fun… the reason I started a blog in the first place. Happy reading!::

When it comes to our childhood in the 80’s, our children are oft regaled to tales of hot summer days spent in a sprinkler, disappearing for hours on bikes, and building secret forts. Entrance required a password, y’all. Characters from TV were in their heyday, and were you even a relevant toy if you didn’t have your own tv show pairing? #poundpuppies #rainbowbright #carebears #heman

But I’m here to discuss the real hero of our childhood, and that would be America’s perpetuation of individually wrapped snack cakes. I don’t know what it was about pre-packaged goods that could easily survive twenty years post-zombie apocalypse that appealed to mothers everywhere in the 70’s-90’s, but they were instant snacks in a box. A delight to many. An answer to their sanity. Maybe because for their generation, it was a treat to buy an ice cold bottled coke at the gas station for five cents. And their parents lived through the depression, saving everything. {Surviving a pandemic, we were totally counting TP squares in May–I get it now.} So naturally that generational pendulum swings back to the idea of early onset obesity in the form of prepackaged, tiny cakes.

A win for children of that generation, everywhere.

You know what I’m talking about. Anything Hostess and Little Debbie. I did not discriminate. And while my mom always prepared a nice dinner with other various healthy whatnots that we didn’t want to eat, we could count on a pantry with the occasional snack cake stockage. The ultimate bribery to polish off those english peas.

Want a snack? Little Debbie Valentines. 

Want a dessert? Here’s a Hostess Cupcake. 

You peel the icing off the top first, duh.

I feel personally attacked by this.

But the king of them all, was the Twinkie. There was definitely an absence on the foodie market for styrofoam shells filled with lard. And they were EVERYTHING. Just moist enough so that you didn’t really need a drink from the hose when your mom wouldn’t let you come inside. And just sugary enough to carry you through the latest bout of mudpies in the back yard. Worth every calorie.

But the health cons are my 21st century peer pressure shame talking. Because all things snack cakes in my childhood were truly amazing. In our generation now, the pendulum has swung yet again, in the other direction. We’re trying to strike a nice healthy balance between insufferable helicopter parenting, bribing our way through college admissions, and back yard organic gardening in our LuLu’s whilst sipping celery water because omg detox. Apparently, you’re now side-eyed if you eat a Twinkie. 

Let alone Little Debbie. SINNER. 

More like Debbie Downer.

Recently an acquaintance of mine called junk food the equivalent to eating cardboard. She doesn’t even go here, and I don’t need that kind of insufferable negativity in my life. Also that’s not what her kids said when I fed them some.

In college my brother was dating this chick and we were on a road trip with my family. We stopped at a gas station and saw a Twinkie. “What’s a Twinkie?” she asked. I knew in that very moment, even though I plastered my smile and watched her try one, {to which she proclaimed it was gross} that she wasn’t worthy of our family. Bummer it didn’t work out.

The key to curing Covid, is the American snack cake. I’m pretty sure I’ve built up enough chemicals in my system to fight off any sickness coming my way. I’ll be participating in the clinical trial. Not the one where I’m infected with Covid, so much as I get to lie around and eat twinkies. 

To this day, it’s not a road trip, if I’m not grabbing a double stuffed oatmeal cream pie when we stop at a gas station. Remember that scene from Honey I Shrunk the Kids, that was every child’s fantasy? I remember the big sister telling the brother he dropped it in the yard, and I was all, “AND YOU LEFT IT THERE? Uh, five-second rule, dummy”. This is right before they discover their new best friend only to have Disney kill him off later so you’re mourning a giant puppet ant. Pure magic.

Side note: Kids these days don’t know what it means to mourn things. Nothing ever dies in kids’ movies anymore, {besides every parent in every Disney movie because apparently, they’re totes dispensable}. As a result, my kids aren’t set up for real-life disappointments. My daughter won’t watch the first Jurassic World because she was worried about the animatronic dinos, and I was all, “GOSH EMERSON it’s not a BIG DEAL THEY’RE NOT EVEN REAL COME ON YOU’LL LOVE IT ITWILLBEFINE.” And then the second Jurassic World was released where I was reliving my childhood yet again {which she still would not watch} and I actually felt personally attacked in that one scene. But the statute of limitations has passed for spoilers, so just know it was a gratuitous-fave-dinosaur-ever murder. Hold on to your butts. 

A part of my childhood died a little. Later, Emerson was all, “told ya so”.

We really celebrated life in the 70’s – 90’s. I mean, the 70’s probs had more serial killers, but nowadays we’re too uptight, all worried about obesity from eating cardboard. Need a little after school snack? Here’s a Ding Dong. We had international day at school in the seventh grade, where we were all supposed to bring food to celebrate that particular country. My friend had Sweden. What did she bring? Swiss Cake Rolls. DUH. A+ for creativity and guts because our teacher was a total jerk.

And you unroll them, by the way. Then you may eat them. 

Imagine my absolute horror last fall after Halloween, when I found our youngest diving into a full-sized Kit Kat. WITH HIS TEETH. Biting into it like a real bonafide psychopath. The rest of us were absolutely mortified, and the entire fam shamed him for a solid month. Now when we ask him the proper way, he will promptly answer that you break it apart first. Right before he goes into the fetal position. I will not raise my children to be totally feral. Priorities.

More notes: Is it even Christmas if you don’t get the Little Debbie cakes shaped like trees? And it wasn’t a trip to my grandmother’s house without a nutty buddy, which you also pull those apart layer by layer. Snoballs are the stale things on the forgotten endcaps of scary gas stations and also for serial killers, probably requested in Ted Bundy’s last meal.

I thought I’d been 21st century shamed out of my snack cake habit permanently, until a month ago. Jamin and I were in the grocery store, when my Lulu’s came to a stand still at the end cap, where oh so expertly placed, we spied a new addition to the Little Debbie family. 

via

Never mind that we try not to bring that ish home too often. Never mind that I’m supposed to be gluten free, my flare up issues a likely penance for my wilder childhood days, and also the key to my immunity to Covid and thus a necessary evil. The world is ending anyway, might as well watch it burn with a well-iced coping mechanism.

But there it was, shining like a beacon of hope: The Little Debbie Unicorn Cakes. 

::breathes heavily through covid mask:: 

It’s like Lisa Frank had a dirty affair with Little Debbie and the result was a beautiful baby. If you could eat one of your unicorn folders from the fifth grade, this is what it would taste like. If you’re not familiar, they have that amazing outer coating we’ve all grown to love, but with crystalized sprinkles. The inside is strawberry. And not a gross strawberry because we all know that could go either way. Think favorite strawberry cake your mom would make. 

It even has sparkles on the box. 

definitely super powers

“We should totally get these for Emerson,” I heaved through my mask but also tried to whisper, looking around guiltily. I should be buying celery water, and here we are standing in the grocery store food porn aisle.

“Yeah,” Jamin agreed. “She would love these. She loves unicorns.”

At home, we started a batch of afternoon coffee before getting back to work. I shamelessly opened the box, excited to give the kids a treat.

“Hey Ki–” I started to call  them into the kitchen, but Jamin immediately stopped me. 

“Don’t call them,” he laughed. “There’s like three of the them. And not that many in the box.”

Eighteen years later, there’s a reason I married this man. This moment is one of them. 

“We should try them first.” 

He’s so hot sometimes.

“Make sure they taste right,” I nodded eagerly. 

I was happy to take one for the team.

We quietly ate one each, in the corner of the kitchen, ready to dive to the floor if they entered. We have to give LD a big round of applause with this one, probably their best yet. Without saying a word, we locked eyes, and pushed the sparkle box quietly to the back of the pantry. Behind the vegetables where NO ONE WOULD NOTICE.

Every few days, we met downstairs in a sexy rendezvous to eat a Little Debbie magical powers cake from our unicorn box. 

So short story long, I guess I’ll never kick the cardboard habit. If I’m wrong I don’t want to be right. 

I have this thing with crack cakes.