I Want M(Oreo)
I don’t believe that anyone has one defining purpose in life, but mine is to try every Oreo limited edition flavor that comes into existence. Dream big, teachers tell children growing up, and what, really, could be bigger than a cookie that is also root beer floats, blueberry pie, fruity cereal, and even carrot cake? The Oreo, like all of us, contains multitudes.
For me, trying Oreo flavors also means that other tastebud innocents out there don’t have to — they can live vicariously, through my attempts to finish one single Mystery Flavor Oreo that tasted of fruit sadness, starbursts melted into milk. Some people want to dive into the unexplored terrain and some people want to see the maps made afterward, I suppose.
But, I’ve always been someone in search of flavor. As a very small child, I would remember desserts I’d had with an uncanny ability to recount each element. There was always a sense of wonder when I’d try a new dessert or candy, because seeing it, smelling it, I would imagine that it might taste one way or the other. The first bite would never live up to what I dreamed it to be. It might be delicious but wouldn’t be exactly as I’d imagined. It was never a bad thing — I liked the surprise and the way it reshaped my sense of taste, but there was always the sense of the imagined versus the reality that probably coincides with why I’m a writer today.
As I got older, I began to dream in taste — making recipes from foods I’d eaten in my dreams and remembered distinctly enough upon waking that I could jot down the flavor palette I had sleep-experienced (sleepsperienced, as it were). Every time I eat something I’ve never had before, I immediately start to break it down to its parts. When I have something in a restaurant that I really enjoy, I can almost always recreate it in the kitchen the next day without a recipe. Food is a playful but patient art, and there is an elegance in how Oreos attempt to mimic this.
Trying different flavors, I usually imagine a robot scientist gamely attempting to mimic a flavor they’ve only ever read about in books. This is what a donut is! This is how coffee tastes! And, I think to myself, Oh silly robot, you Icarus of flavors, to soar so high.
I love the promise of opening a new package of strangely colored and flavored delights. There’s always the chance the algorithm has finally worked, or, at least worked enough to create something actually tasty (Gingerbread Oreos, for example, don’t taste like gingerbread but do taste like an iced speculoo and I, for one, am HERE for that or the Willy Wonka-like Blueberry Pie Oreos which one of my nephews described as tasting like “blueberry wizard magic.”). Statistically, most fail, though. Strawberry Donut Oreos, for example, smelled like the memory of a strawberry candy who has seen some things in its day. I could eat exactly one. I regretted nothing. Oreos have existed for over 100 years, but the foray into flavor-expansion came relatively recently.
Debuting in 1912, the Oreo was a simple cookie: two dark chocolate wafers sandwiched around a vanilla creme. In 1920, a lemon creme-filling was introduced and quickly snatched away, as it proved unpopular. At the time, the simple chocolate and vanilla combo was perfect because of its simplicity. So the Oreo remained relatively unchanged for half a century (other than a few recipe tweaks) until 1974 with the introduction of the Double Stuf Oreo. Double Stuf Oreos now seem like quaint and polite creations, but at the time I’m sure they were greeted with the same reverent awe as new flavors are today (by a select group of people who get the Stendhal effect from the artistic expression of new Oreos). Originally made with a lard filling, it wasn’t until the 90s that this filling was replaced with vegetable oil — creating the vegan Oreo we know today, and allowing little baby vegetarian Chloe to finally be able to feast on them. Thus, creating a lifepath for me that no one would (or should) ever expect.
Over the next decade or so, a few new flavors were introduced but tended to be fairly tame: Golden Oreos nixed the chocolate, Mint Oreos took a classic combination, and Chocolate-dipped Oreos became an indulgent treat that somehow seemed fancy. Then, in the early 2010s, a miracle happened. Miracle is used here loosely, inaccurately, and probably somewhat sacrilegiously. Limited Edition flavors began to come out. These flavors were touted as ones that would arrive for short periods of time and be harder to find. While somewhat true — I mean, have you ever gone to ten different stores to try to find Orange Creamsicle Oreos or are you satisfied with life?, it was also somewhat disingenuous since Limited Edition flavors that proved popular were often added into the “normal” flavors of Oreos (see Birthday Cake, Lemon [1920’s, you were ahead of your time], etc).
Of these, now in the dozens, Limited Edition flavors I have tried a disturbingly large amount (every one released in the United States) as well as every novelty Oreo product I can get my hands on (Oreo ice cream novelty treats, I am looking at you. Oreo Churros, I am trying to forget you). These limited edition flavors include the Most Stuf Oreo which remains one of the most challenging undertakings of my life: Oreo Crème as it turns out is just not great tasting on its own and I now question every person who licks the crème out of Oreos without eating the wafer. It also includes the Swedish Fish Oreo which had filling so red and bright that I felt like I was seeing into an alternate dimension every time I looked at it. Even with these Oreos of dubious flavoring, I still found delight in the process of trying them.
First off, there’s the hunt to actually find the flavors — which now is easier thanks to online shopping (before I had a computer, there was the Mississippi Mud Pie Oreo which could only be found in Dollar General stores). Then there’s the visual analysis of the packaging: the garish colors that are, unfortunately, reflected in the flavor cremes very accurately. The way that the real version of the food is displayed next to the cookie version in a triumphant look what we did! Should they have? Most likely not, but they did and now we all get to taste it. Peeling up the top of the packaging, getting hit by the scent is always my favorite experience. It rarely reflects what the cookie will taste like but gives a good idea of just how chemically the experience you are about to undertake will be. Mint Oreos smell minty and fresh. The Gingerbread Oreos smell like Christmas morning. Firework Oreos have the scent of sugar that has gone through some kind of Hulkifying. Every time I crack open a pack and delightedly say, These smell really weird!, I realize someone should be judging me.
And, then, of course, that first bite. This is where all the promise either comes to fruition…or most likely, doesn’t. But in that moment, before I really taste it, I always have a flash of maybe this time. Maybe this time, the Oreo will taste exactly as it says it will. Maybe this time, I’ll be transported back to a child trying these foods for the first time and thinking: this is perfect. It tastes exactly like I imagined it would.
