I Dream of Pop-Tarts
Those frosted cherry sugar bombs of my childhood
I distinctly remember the last time I ate a Pop-Tart. It was the first time I ever tried a marijuana-laced brownie. I had made a terrible newbie mistake by eating half the brownie, waiting a while for something to happen, feeling nothing, and then eating the rest of the brownie. You know what happened next.
The whole brownie proceeded to kick in full force and I felt stoned. Then VERY stoned. Like, I think I can’t move my legs stoned. And then like maybe I’m dying stoned. In an attempt to ward off the holy moly I’m dying feeling, I ate the most junk food-like thing I could find: a package of strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts. The Pop-Tarts didn’t make me feel like I wasn’t dying, but they were, in the moment, the most delicious culinary invention man placed on this earth. I thought that if I did die, at least I’d go thoroughly enjoying the fuck out of those things. I watched The Simpsons until I fell asleep, and then I woke up the next day decidedly not dead.
This pot brownie Pop-Tart event took place just after my senior year of college. I was at the age where I had just started living on my own and becoming somewhat of an adult, the age where maybe I still purchased Pop-Tarts on occasion. But after that, as I became more of an adult, I started becoming more aware of my diet. I slowly weaned off the processed foods on which I was raised and took to clean eating of whole foods before “clean eating” was really even a phrase.
Mostly, I learned that eating wholesome foods makes me feel good. I learned how to cook things like kale and spaghetti squash, quinoa and barley. I discovered lentils and black beans, beets and parsnips. All sorts of things that simply weren’t in my mom’s repertoire of family dinners when I was growing up. Mom’s a good cook, don’t get me wrong, but her specialties are not quite what I’d call wholesome: lasagna, chicken parmesan, meatloaf, broccoli and potatoes with cheese sauce (rarely were vegetables served without cheese), pies and cakes and cookies of all kinds. Mom’s food is comfort food, but it’s not the type of food I could eat consistently as an adult while also maintaining a healthy weight.
In fact, I’m not quite sure how I wasn’t obese as a child. There was always junk food in our house — Lucky Charms and Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Yodels and Ring Dings, Double Stuf Oreos and Chewy Chips Ahoy, Doritos and salsa con queso, Dunkaroos and Lunchables, the occasional TV dinner, and, of course, Pop-Tarts.
Frosted cherry and frosted strawberry are the varieties I remember first. Later, there were the chocolate ones and then — heaven on earth — s’mores.
I remember my little brother’s favorite Pop-Tart was this purple-frosted monstrosity called Wild Berry. The bright purple topping was a frightening color, the kind of thing you think you’re probably not supposed to eat. But whatever kind of fruit a wild berry was, they did actually taste pretty good. Ya know, for Pop-Tarts.
I either ate Pop-Tarts straight from the package or, if I wanted them warm, I’d microwave them. There was an exact amount of time that was perfect for Pop-Tart heating, something like 23 seconds. Even five seconds too short and the filling would barely be warm, lacking in gooeyness. Five seconds too long and the fruit filling turned into hot lava. 23 seconds (or something like that) was the perfect amount of time to produce a warm but not-too-hot filling with the proper ooze factor.
Later in life, I learned that Pop-Tarts are infinitely better when heated in their intended heating device, the toaster. A toasted Pop-Tart is in a whole different class of pastry than its microwaved counterpart. The lightly browned and ever so slightly crisp edges (with…dare I say…a hint of nuttiness?) serve as a complement to the sweet, oozy filling which rarely reaches the lava state in the toaster lest the pastry also turn out burnt.
In college, I had a work-study job in an office in the campus center, a floor above various dining places and a little mini-mart. There were many occasions when I’d venture to the mini-mart for my breakfast or lunch, depending on when I was working. This was at a time in my life when I was just beginning to discover coffee, still averse to the bitter straight black stuff and instead a fan of the awful stuff that is the automatic cappuccino machine. So I’d grab a terrible cappuccino and a package of frosted cherry Pop-Tarts to eat back in the office and call it a meal. My first sad desk lunch.
What baffles my mind today is that a package of Pop-Tarts and a shitty cappuccino total about 600 calories and those calories contain absolutely zero nutritional value.
I would never call that a meal today. Not even close. For 600 calories I can have a big bowl of oats with fruit and nuts and flax, black coffee, and two hard-boiled eggs and still have some calories leftover. That’s so much more filling and packed with vitamins, nutrients, fiber, and protein.
If you look at the nutrition facts on a box of frosted cherry Pop-Tarts, you’ll see they contain 200 calories, 5 grams of fat, 2 grams of protein, 16 grams of sugar, and less than 1 gram of fiber.
Each.
That’s right, per pastry. Each silver package contains two pastries. And nobody in their right mind ever eats just one Pop-Tart. That’s ludicrous. If they wanted you to eat just one, they’d package them individually.
So one package is basically a 400 calorie sugar bomb and that’s it. These things are far from being part of a complete breakfast. Looking back now, I can’t believe I ever ate them!
And yet…
For some reason, I’ve recently found myself with a wicked craving for Pop-Tarts. The frosted cherry ones, specifically.
I’ve been thinking about them for days and days. The pink frosting speckled with red sugar sprinkles, the cardboard-like pastry surrounding the artificial-flavored filling. Oh man. They’re so awful and gross and yet…
I. Want. Some.
Look! Just look how simultaneously gross and scrumptious they are! I feel like a salivating Homer Simpson ogling that photo.
I’m not sure what’s triggering this craving. Maybe it’s some kind of sugar withdrawal. Maybe it’s the fact that I saw someone eating a package of Pop-Tarts while I was on a bus the other day and I was instantly stricken with jealousy as I watched them scarf down the rainbow-speckled strawberry frosted treats. Or maybe it’s all Oliver’s fault for subconsciously making me think about Pop-Tarts, not of the music variety but of the breakfast pastry variety.
I don’t know. But I think it’s probably best to not indulge my Pop-Tart fantasy. I think, most likely, I’d be incredibly disappointed and revolted by them today. Sort of like English muffin pizzas. Did you ever eat English muffin pizzas as a kid? They were amazing, right? And then did you ever try them as an adult, in a nostalgic attempt to re-experience your childhood pizza joy? I have. And it turns out they’re pretty terrible.
Pizza shouldn’t be constructed on English muffins. And likewise, frosted cherry Pop-Tarts are probably best consumed only in my dreams.
