I don’t know why, but for some reason I’ve been Jonesing for a poptart. Not for the somewhat passable after the fall of western society S’more variety, but a fruit one, in particular blueberry. It seems that for the past year or so I have wanted one at odd times, after a run, post coital bliss, while watching Perfect Strangers. However, it never occurs to me to buy the things when I am at the grocery store. Leaving this craving unanswered, meaning it is one craving. Not these cravings, which implies that I have satisfied the craving and have had others.
For those of you sheltered enough to somehow not know what a poptart is, they are tarts for people who lost their taste buds in some horrific explosion or for people who thought fifty year old preserves would go great between communion wafers.
Poptarts are made from a pie crust like product that started out as more paste than dough. In the middle of this, bread pocket, is this near dehydrated jam stuff. If one springs for the deluxe box, there will even be some completely unsatisfying frosting on top.
As I’ve alluded to, they are dry. I swear to google that the recipe for these things had to be rejected from the U.S. space program back in the sixties for being ever so slightly too moist. Go ahead and wikipedia it, I am a little too close for such an off the cuff remark.
Of course, one could actually opt to put the poptarts in a toaster until they – as their name clearly states – pop. At which point consumers of hot poptarts should exercise caution, as freshly toasted poptarts will almost certainly scorch the tongue. Leaving a trail of destruction and smoldering taste buds that are unable to taste anything. Which could be a boon since the consumer is about to eat a poptart. It may also make no difference to them as, they are about to eat a poptart. Which is a sign that they aren’t using their tongue’s taste capacitors for the power of good or anything other than going to Wendy’s for some high-falutin square patty burger eatin’. So the consumer’s taste is non-applicable in the first place.
Go ahead, put the poptarts in the toaster. They may give the impression of being moist upon exiting, but they may also singe facial hair. If these molten bastards existed more than six hundred years ago, they would have been flung over castle walls. Bursting grass shit huts into flames and covering poor peons with incredibly hot and painfully sticky poptart innards. Thankfully, we only have to eat these things. Fortunately, I don’t have any in the house.