Dispatches from the City of Angels
I'm a writer and humorist living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my novel LOSING CLEMENTINE out March 6 from William Morrow. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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"Taint what a horse looks like, it’s what a horse be." - A Hat Full of Sky by Terry Pratchett
"Trying to take it easy after you've finished a manuscript is like trying to take it easy when you have a grease fire on a kitchen stove." - Jan Burke
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Pop Tarts from Hell
Pop Tarts, it turns out, are an acquired taste. And I'm pretty sure you have to acquire it sometime before the age of seven - sort of like gummy worms and fruit loops.
My childhood home was a Pop Tart-free zone. It wasn't until college when a combination of busyness and nutritional laziness pushed me into a thereto unexplored realm of gastronomical nasties. Along with Ramen noodles and Hamburger Helper (all firsts), I bought my inaugural box of Pop Tarts.
It's probably still there in that dilapidated apartment in the back of the cupboard - assuming some frat boys haven't discovered and eaten them.
If you haven't had a Pop Tart, let me review the experience:
The box amusingly refers to the little vomit packets as "toaster pastries." The "pastry" portion of the ride consists of soda crackers - or perhaps hardtack - that's been soaked in dishwater and allowed to semi-dry and go stale. Inside this little bundle of joy is inserted a coagulated ooze of high fructose corn syrup and red #40. If you're really special, the entire thing might be slathered on one side with a frighteningly pink "icing" clearly scraped from the cloven hoof of the devil himself.
I had pushed this entire traumatic experience to the back of my mind where I keep old episodes of "Saved By the Bell." But husbands have a way of worming things back up to the present.
Sunday in the cereal aisle:
Me: "Granola or raisin bran?"
Austin: "They have Pop Tarts!"
Me: "Probably also gruel, but we're looking at cereal right now."
Austin: "I'm getting Pop Tarts. They are MY Pop Tarts."
He said this with obvious protectiveness. Now I'm not denying my propensity to go after most sweets like a Hoover after dust bunnies, but he might as well have said, "It's MY exploding butt boil cream!" There's just really no reason for concern.
When we got home, I looked at the nutritional information panel. Little tip from your Aunt Ashley: If you ever plan on eating a Pop Tart ever again, don't look at the nutritional information panel. Besides the truly staggering amount of saturated fat - must be the hardtack - and sugar, the box proudly proclaims on the front "made with real fruit" only to list said fruit under the "contains two percent or less" category of the ingredient list.
Not that this has stopped my darling groom from ripping into the little foil packages like a starving refugee.
Turns out there is such a thing as red #40 breath.
My childhood home was a Pop Tart-free zone. It wasn't until college when a combination of busyness and nutritional laziness pushed me into a thereto unexplored realm of gastronomical nasties. Along with Ramen noodles and Hamburger Helper (all firsts), I bought my inaugural box of Pop Tarts.
It's probably still there in that dilapidated apartment in the back of the cupboard - assuming some frat boys haven't discovered and eaten them.
If you haven't had a Pop Tart, let me review the experience:
The box amusingly refers to the little vomit packets as "toaster pastries." The "pastry" portion of the ride consists of soda crackers - or perhaps hardtack - that's been soaked in dishwater and allowed to semi-dry and go stale. Inside this little bundle of joy is inserted a coagulated ooze of high fructose corn syrup and red #40. If you're really special, the entire thing might be slathered on one side with a frighteningly pink "icing" clearly scraped from the cloven hoof of the devil himself.
I had pushed this entire traumatic experience to the back of my mind where I keep old episodes of "Saved By the Bell." But husbands have a way of worming things back up to the present.
Sunday in the cereal aisle:
Me: "Granola or raisin bran?"
Austin: "They have Pop Tarts!"
Me: "Probably also gruel, but we're looking at cereal right now."
Austin: "I'm getting Pop Tarts. They are MY Pop Tarts."
He said this with obvious protectiveness. Now I'm not denying my propensity to go after most sweets like a Hoover after dust bunnies, but he might as well have said, "It's MY exploding butt boil cream!" There's just really no reason for concern.
When we got home, I looked at the nutritional information panel. Little tip from your Aunt Ashley: If you ever plan on eating a Pop Tart ever again, don't look at the nutritional information panel. Besides the truly staggering amount of saturated fat - must be the hardtack - and sugar, the box proudly proclaims on the front "made with real fruit" only to list said fruit under the "contains two percent or less" category of the ingredient list.
Not that this has stopped my darling groom from ripping into the little foil packages like a starving refugee.
Turns out there is such a thing as red #40 breath.
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