So the Twinkie is dead. Unless you’ve been under a rock, or camped out like a lunatic outside a Best Buy in anticipation of Black Friday door openings, this is not news.
But here, the battle has just begun.
My husband bought the last Twinkie. Or the last one in our area, at least.
Not for a last taste, final wave of nostalgia purpose. Nor to allow Quinn his one and only taste of a cultural was. Not even to test the longevity of it’s construction.
Nope. He bought it just to have.
He just has a number of things like this – a collection of sorts. He is the proud owner of an unopened can of New Coke. There are boxes of Simpsons cereal in storage upstairs. There’s a can of Billy Beer somewhere.
But those things were bought and stored before the kidlet came to live with us.
Before the presence of sugary, cream-filled cakes resulted in, “Can I have that?”
“Can’t you share?”
“You should want to share.”
“I’d share with you.”
Over. And over. And over.
And has my husband put the offending snack cake away, out of sight in response to this onslaught?
Be it a masochistic streak, or a finely honed sense of procrastination, the Twinkie still sits in the cupboard, 4 days later.
I’m thinking, seriously, of feeding it to the dog.