Pop-tarts

The thin wrinkled foil, the granular crust leaving crumbs in the bottom corners of the package. The sweet frosting complimenting the warm filling when toasted. The unnatural, yet perfect, square shape of both pastries satisfying my compulsive habits. Its rough layer of sprinkles reminding you of the short lived, late night snack as you find them across the surface of your work desk. The sticky sweet taste that never gets old, even at 2 AM when you’re on your 3^rd pack.

Waking up at 7:30 on elementary school days back in the house on Sullivan road, 75 cents to scent the morning with blueberry on Mondays and strawberry on Thursdays. Before Dad quit his job. Before 2 people really became just 2 people, tied together by the fruits of a dead tree. Kitty Connor, and Nickelodeon on Saturday mornings and if we didn’t act up, maybe a pack of cherry Pop-tarts to distract my sister and I from what was clearly missing. We were young. I was young, but I had my pastries and that was enough for me. Now I’m not that young anymore. I can’t give you a straight answer on whether things have gotten better or worse, but a dollar thirty five, and a silver pack is still enough.

Sometimes a quick spark when I can’t think and don’t feel like cooking. Sometimes a friend when I have none. Through my life, when everything else has up and gone, strangely enough, the only thing to stay the same has been as simple, as a pack of Pop-tarts.