Tragedy Strikes

I was surprised to open my blog viewer editing page thingy and find that this blog had over 500 views. I only have one follower though, so what does that say...?

Regardless, I figured since I put all the time and effort into establishing this blog, I might as well continue to update it. It's hard to find time to blog with a full time job and a child, but for you--yes you, my solo follower--I will post on!

Sadly, this entry is not one of humor, but one of tragedy. Read on only if you think your fragile heart can handle the pain.

Several weeks ago was when I originally became inspired to update this blog. I don't remember exactly what once again sparked my desire to experiment with the foreign food (though I'm pretty confident it had something to do with a chocolate craving), but I did finally come crawling back to the Rebox shoebox....

I remember one Christmas during my childhood where there was a package under the tree that I just KNEW was a stuffed animal. I was obsessed with them as a kid (almost as much as I was with candy) so when I grabbed the light weight, squishy package from the pile of other gifts, I could hardly contain my joy. My excitement was tangible, I was so thrilled! That was until I tore the paper off to reveal...

{{pause for dramatic effect}}

...socks.

And when I went to retrieve food (probably chocolate) from the Rebox shoebox, it felt like that Christmas moment all over again. Not only was there no chocolate, there was hardly anything else either. There were no pizza shapes and no twisty crunchy thingies either (I had two packs if I remember correctly, both gone). There were other snacks gone too that I can't remember (I have a list but I'm too lazy to retrieve it). All that remained were some bo peep hard candies (is that what they're called?), some blue airplane Jell-O looking stuff, a can of milo, and chicken salt.

Obviously, my first action was to do what anyone in my position would do--accuse my husband. But he denied it and I believe him. He really wouldn't eat the stuff, he knew its value to me. And so I started asking everyone who had been in the house that past month or so. No one has ever admitted guilt and the items were never found.

Frustrated and discouraged, my inspiration to blog again died.

Fortunately my supplier, hearing of my tragic loss, took sympathy and sent a small care package replacement consisting of more pizza shapes and (<3 xoxox) chocolate and orange Tim Tams! I have hidden the pizza shapes and I consumed all the Tim Tams with the exception of one biscuit that I am saving for a Tim Tam Slam, should I ever get around to it.

So there you have it.

Taste testing to be continued...

Darrell Lee's Fine Chocolate

I had just consumed some lunch and stood dumbfounded in my kitchen. I still had about 15 minutes left of break before I had to head back to work and I didn’t know what to do with myself.

 The quiet calm of the house was suddenly disturbed when I heard a deep rumbling in the distance…from the sound of it, a major thunderstorm was headed my way.

Wait…no…I could feel that…it was no storm.  It was hunger. My tilapia lunch was hardly satisfying and it left my stomach angry. It was begging—no, demanding I ingest more food—something a little more appetizing than fish.

Oh yes. The unmistakable craving had struck me. The sweet, declious mistress was calling me to her. 

Chocolate.

I present to you "Darrell Lee's Fine Milk Chocolate"..and this is where my blogging becomes much more...uninspired. I had high hopes for this chocolate bar and I warn you now--this item did not live up to my expectations.

One doesn't just put "Fine" on the package unless it is a quality product. It was a package of lies. I wanted to be able to enthusiastically blog today, but it looks like it's not going to happen.

So instead, here's a brief synopsis of how things went down:

I opened the package and broke off a piece of the bar. I suspect it usually looks a bit more presentable than this:

Transport was not kind to the chocolate.

Honestly, there's nothing I can really say about this chocolate. It was essentially a Hershey's Bar in Darrell Lee disguise. I didn't hate it, but I didn't enjoy it, either. I ended up offering the rest of it to Hubs.

All and all, I give this chocolate a rating of "meh." I am hoping the Iced VoVo's I intend to eat later render a much more positive reaction.

Tim Tams -- Chewy Caramel

The Dark Chocolate Tim Tams grew on me. After posting my evaluation of them on this blog, I decided to give the Tim Tams another try the other day. So I ate one again...and again...and soon I had emptied the entire package (sharing only a couple with Hubs). I couldn't stop eating them, their addictive crunchiness calling me back for more. I was sure this was going to be the gem of my care package.

And then I found happiness with a new love.



Let me be honest with you folks. I wasn't planning on blogging about this. I was home on my lunch break when I was suddenly struck with the undeniable urge to consume chocolate. Every once in awhile I have a calling for it that I cannot deny (ladies, you know what I'm talking about) so I opened the lid of the Reebox shoebox and pondered what snack would satisfy my desire. "Tim Tam; Chewy Caramel"--they were sitting at the top of the stack. Destiny.

Unlike my careful, apprehensive approach with the first pack of Tim Tams, I tore this one open without hesitation. I didn't even bother sniffing them this time. It was chocolate, I craved chocolate, and I didn't need to smell it to know I wanted to eat it. I grabbed a biscuit, stuffed the rest back in the pack, and continued to scrounge the kitchen for something to eat for lunch. I mindlessly stuck the corner of the Tim Tam in my mouth and bit.

I was completely taken off guard. My pupils dilated. Suddenly, everything was more vivid and colorful and amazing. It was as if every item in my kitchen came to life to celebrate the consumption of this delicious creation, cheering me on with every chew. Even the dogs came in  the kitchen, sat at my feet, and watched me (I suspected they were sensing my overwhelming joy). I welcomed the unexpected surprise--but I wanted to focus exclusively on the party in my mouth, so I closed my eyes and savored the experience.
 
 Crunchy...chewy...creamy...It was like a Tag-a-long* had sex with a Twix bar and birthed the most fantastical of things anyone could ever consume.
I was (am) overjoyed with these things and I'm saddened I only have one package to my name. I knew I mustn't let Hubs in on the secret. I didn't want to share. So I made the package as inconspicuous as possible and stuck them in the refrigerator.

Let me tell you all this magical secret that my supplier shared with me--the only thing better than a caramel Tim Tam is a refrigerated caramel Tim Tam, which I got to sample this evening after work.


Oh. My. Lanta.


The chewiness of the caramel stays chewy while the crunchiness gets crunchier and somehow the outside layer of chocolate instantly melts in your mouth when you bite in.

I now know God exists because caramel Tim Tams do.


________
*For my Aussie readers: Tag-a-longs are American cookies created by The Girl Scouts of America. These collection of cookies (Tag-A-Longs (peanut butter, cookie, and chocolate) are just one variety) are only available for a limited time once a year. Other types include Trefoils (a butter cookie), Thin Mints (chocolate and mint), and Samoas (chocolate, caramel, and coconut).

Allen's Chicos

I felt particularly excited about the Chicos. My Australian supplier informed me this was one of her favorites--Chocolate gummy candies. We don't have anything like this in The States...though that may be due to the offensive packaging.

The picture on the front indisputably resembled a black baby. I couldn't help but feel a little bit racist as l tore open the bag of Chicos.

It was as if the package was a hive and the odor within was angry bees. Breaking open the seal released the bees in a swarming attack against my nostrils."GAH" I exclaimed to Hubs, who was curiously observing me on the couch.

"What, do they smell bad?" he asked. The black babies intrigued him, too.

"No, not bad. Just really strong." Oddly enough, they wreaked of vanilla extract.

I pulled a single Chico from the bag and inspected it. It looked less like the baby on the label and more like a funny looking miniature man.


Cautiously I inserted it into my mouth and began to chew. I identified the flavor immediately.

Have you ever had homemade chocolate pudding? If not, allow me to enlighten you. Homemade chocolate pudding may just be the best chocolatey treat in existence (especially accompanied by a dollop of whip cream). The only drawback to it (in my opinion, which I must specify is not universal) is the gelatinous film that forms on the top of the pudding after it's left to sit and cool before consumption. Chicos are almost identical in flavor to that film.

While the flavor was not particularly offensive, I couldn't continue eating the little black baby men. They smelled so artificial and I couldn't get past their chewy consistency.

But there was a far more distressing issue here. And it was staring back at me from the package. It was the baby on the bag. It was smiling its stupid, mocking smile. And it was really starting to piss me off. "Ha ha, you thought these were going to be good, but they aren't! Your disappointment amuses me!" it seemed to be saying.



The experience I was having was not good and it was only being made worse by the (mostly) toothless grin of the 8-toed baby. I hated it's face. Something had to be done.

So I turned the bag over.


Another big, stupid, smug grin was there. The package was covered in mockery. I couldn't win.

The food had successfully enraged me. I threw the Chicos on the coffee table in disgust. "These things suck and they're stupid." I sat against the couch and folded my arms.

Hubs retrieved the pack from the table and extracted a baby man for himself. I observed his reaction, wondering if he, too, would feel duped. "Hmm...these aren't bad. Actually, I like them!"

I couldn't believe it. How could anyone be enthusiastic about these things?

Hubs popped another in his mouth...and then I realized that by eating them all, the pack would be gone, each little smug baby man crushed and pulverized between teeth as Hubs consumed them. The baby on the front of the bag would meet its doom, too, as it inevitably would be smashed in a trash compactor somewhere.

Suddenly, I grew a smug grin of my own.

Yes, Hubs. Eat ALL the Chicos...

Vegemite

It’s been well oven an hour since I consumed my first Vegemite covered toast…and I can still taste it…it’s lingering on my tongue, a slowly dissolving film of gross.

The Vegemite was the product that started it all. What was initially a “hey, let me send you Vegemite so you can try it” objective became an epic food adventure. Thank God, because if this was the only product I even tried from Australia, I might have a terrible idea of the place.

I am still perplexed by the condiment packaged in a bright yellow tube. I don’t even know what really made me want to try this product—there is absolutely no selling point that would entice me to eat it. “Concentrated yeast extract” was the printed description below the Vegemite label. “One of the world’s richest known sources of vitamin B!” the tube boasted. “No artificial colours or flavours” read the back—though maybe they should have considered adding something to make it a bit more palatable.

Work Wife was quite adamant I sample this staple of Australia at work, sharing with her not only my first exposure but also the food. She brought the bread and butter, and Australia provided the Vegemite. As instructed by my Australian supplier, I was to toast bread, apply copious amounts of butter, and top it off with a thin layer of Vegemite.

To the kitchen I went, preparing the buttered bread and hoping no one asked any questions. Quickly I returned to my desk and broke open the Vegemite tube. It was very much like opening a tube of toothpaste, except the contents looked a lot less like minty freshness and a lot more like crap. I held the open end to my nose and reluctantly inhaled. I expected to be slapped in the face by the odor like a disobedient housewife, but instead only subtle hints of dry dog food filled my nostrils. Maybe this won’t be too bad…

     

I turned the tube to my toast and gently squeezed out a small glob. It was a dark brown and thick, and by looking at it one might think it was Nutella I was applying to the bread. Deceptive, Vegemite I thought as I smeared it across the crannies of the toast.

Finally, it was ready for consumption. I stared at the snack. It stared back. Slowly I lifted it to my mouth; as if instinctual, I curled my lips away from my teeth as to have as little of the Vegemite touch me as possible…then I bit in.

The flavor was subtle. It was a little salty, yes, but mostly I tasted butter and bread . “I think I need a more concentrated sampling” I declared to Work Wife as I grabbed the tube of Vegemite. I squeezed out another blob atop the toast and sunk my teeth in again.

This is where things went horribly, horribly wrong.

My face warped into positions I didn’t know it was capable of doing. My tongue retracted far into my throat like a groundhog retreating to its hole, threatened by a predator--but it wasn’t going to be able to escape this attack. The flavor of Vegemite flooded every taste bud yet somehow I was able to control my natural instinct to spit.

I swallowed the gooey disaster. I analyzed its flavor.

“Oh, you’ll hate that. It tastes like bouillon cubes.” My Mother’s Vegemite warning played over in my head as I tried to decide what kind of salty this was. No, it wasn’t quite like bouillon cubes. Someone else had described it to me as similar to Ramen Noodle flavor packs, but it wasn’t like that either.

It was just salt.

Simple table salt in its most recognizable form…mixed with yeast. And it was thick and sticky and I couldn’t, and still can’t, fathom why this condiment can be found in the vast majority of pantries across Australia.

As for me, the Vegemite will likely go into my pantry, too. And there it will sit.

Tim Tams -- Dark Chocolate

"TAKE A DEEP BREATH--inhale--smell that? It's Australia! IT'S LIKE WE'RE THERE!"

Work Wife just may have been more excited than I was at the sight of the freshly opened parcel. We stood over the package, gawking at it's contents.

"Australia smells like cardboard." I reached in the box, sifting through the items and reading each of their labels aloud. There were so many things to choose from and I had a very difficult time deciding what I would sample first.

After weighing my options and determining my craving for chocolate needed to be satisfied, I finally settled on one of three varieties of Tim Tams--dark chocolate. The Tim Tams were a much anticipated item and I was very, very excited to sink my teeth into one, popping my proverbial Tim Tam cherry.

I grabbed one side of the package and carefully peeled open the plastic. To my surprise, I was almost instantly hit with chocolatey aromas. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

When faced with a new experience, your brain will automatically try to relate it to something you have experienced. Such was the function of my brain as it quickly sifted through memories attempting to identify the scent. The best matches I could come up with were "Ovaltine" and "Co-Co Puffs". I extended my hand of Tim Tams out to Work Wife who quickly accepted my offer to not only to give them a sniff, but sample one as well. But I was first.

I extracted a biscuit from it's plastic bed and was very surprised. I had expected a sort of soft, cake-like treat and instead felt taken aback as I lifted the stiff rectangular morsel to my nose. Again, I breathed deep to take in the smell, then took a bite of the corner.

My expression then could only be described as confusion. Through the delectable chocolate coating and sandwiched between the crunchy, chocolate cookie wafers was a layer of chocolate cream that one could describe as irresistible.

(For those of you who have never consumed a Tim Tam, I give you the anatomy of a Tim Tam:)

But still, I wasn't sure how to feel about the Tim Tam. Sure, it was tasty, but it didn't knock my socks off. More than that, I couldn't shut my brain off as it continued to try and figure out what this thing tasted like. Work Wife's analogy of the biscuit sums up everything about it: "There's something strangely familiar yet vague and weird about them."

I think this is my problem. My brain simply cannot accept that this is a new treat with its own unique flavor and leave me be to bask in the Tim Tam's glory. Instead I am left making comparison after comparison and coming to no concrete conclusions. What does this taste like? I know I've had something like it before...

Amazingly, I am left not discouraged but with even greater desire to try the other two Tim Tam flavors, Original and Caramel. More amazing still is what I will be trying after sampling each of the three flavors--the "Tim Tam Slam". Instructions for this science experiment gone awry (sent along with the box) seem to involve a chocolate drink and using a Tim Tam like a straw. Yes, I am a little scared, too.

Retrieving the Box

I shifted uncomfortably in the post office line, impatiently waiting for my turn at the counter. Two tellers stood at their stations, each with a customer. A woman was in line ahead of me with what I could only assume was an insignificant request. Let’s move this along, people. I have a very important package waiting for me, I thought to myself. No longer paying attention to the other patrons, my eyes began to dart around, taking in my surroundings. Shelves of packages lined the wall behind the counter. Which one was destined to be mine?

I glared at the woman in front of me as she was called to the newly available teller. I hoped her post office need required little assistance as I did not enjoy the growing anticipation I felt. “I need the stamps with bonsai trees”, she demanded.

“Um…hmmm…” the female teller hesitated, looking at the display of available stamps. “I don’t see that stamp. These are the ones we have” she explained as she pointed to a bulletin board affixed to the wall.

“Oh. Ok…” The customer pondered her selection as fury began to burn within me like lava. With every “hmmm” and “ummm” the fury bubbled up, threatening to spill out as manifestation of angry words. HURRY THE FUCK UP! ALL THE STAMPS DO THE JOB FINE, JUST PICK ONE!

After what felt like an eternity, she pointed to the forever stamps tacked to the bulletin board. “I guess get me those” she instructed. Slowly, more customers were expanding the line behind me. Eager to get the queue moving, the teller quickly pulled a sheet of stamps from her desk and put an end to the excruciating transaction. It was then that I heard the most beautiful sentence ever spoken to me: “Ma’am? I can take you at this desk.”

It was as if God himself was calling me to the gates for expedited entry. The boiling vat of rage was instantly cooled. I handed the teller my pink postage slip. “You guys have a package for me”--I spit out the words as if I had a very limited time to speak them. She took the slip from my hands and walked to the back shelves. She began plucking through slim packages. I felt impatience growing in me again as I spoke to myself.  Those are too small. Start looking at the bigger packages…come on…a little to the left…She followed my direction as if she could hear my thoughts. “Ah, here it is” she stated as she pulled a royal blue Reebox shoebox down from the shelf.

I was beaming with delight as she set the box in front of me. My mouth was stuck in a smile and I could not force it into any other shape. I signed for the package and quickly made an escape for my car, the precious cargo supported by both of my hands. I secured it in my passenger seat and began the commute back to work. Like a mother using her arm to protect her child during an abrupt stop, I stretched my right appendage across the box buckled into the seat. I would NOT allow any harm be done to this package. I’ve waited too long for its arrival.

It wasn’t until I was safely at my work desk with the package that I felt it was finally OK to celebrate. “VICTORY IS MINE!” I announced to Work Wife as I burst through the front office door. Like Arthur with Excalibur, I raised the box high above my head in triumph. I couldn’t be sure, but I could swear it was its own light source.

Gently, I placed the box on my desk and admired it. Clear packing tape sealed every crack and affixed the list of contents to the side. I refused to read it, allowing myself to be surprised only after looking inside. I slowly ran my finger across the postage, reading aloud its script: “AUSTRALIA.” I stared at the word, big and bold. I reached for the scissors resting by my computer.

My fingers caressed every edge of the package as I looked for the optimal opening point. I decided on a well taped spot on the front of the box—the spot that would release the lid, exposing the contents.

Slowly, I sunk the blade into the box...

Have you ever seen that commercial for the vibrator, the one with the catch line "It's so good it'll blow your hair back", as the camera pans over a group of women who look like they've spent too much time in front of an industrial strength fan?

I just experienced that.

The Card in the Mail

I was tired, hungry, and disgruntled. My earlier visit to the gym left me looking pretty shabby in my sweat pants and untamed hair. Baby hadn't yet gone to sleep and, until he did, this meant no dinner for me. I sat with him supported by my left arm on the couch while my right hand held his bottle firmly in his mouth. I waited as his rhythmic sucks slowed and he drifted off in my arms. A store bought rotisserie chicken sat on the coffee table; tempting was she with her glistening, crisp skin. I must get this baby in his crib, I thought. I needed my hands free to devour my dinner at last.

I quickly laid Baby down. His heavy sigh upon his placement in bed made me stiffen with fear as I waited to see if he would rest or scream. After a strong exhale, Baby relaxed and let his body go limp as sleep took him over.

The chicken was finally mine.

I sat on the edge of the couch and dug into the greasy bird. Hubs watched with concern as I ate like a prison inmate--pulling scraps of meat from bones without the assistance of any pesky utensils. It was good--delicious, even--but it could not pull me from my funk.

 I sat back against the couch. It was early still...but not too early. I could get away with going to bed now, but I don't know if my brain would let me rest quite yet. Baby didn't sleep too much today...I had to wonder if he would be waking up at a normal time in the morning or...

"Babe", Hubs said, disrupting my train of thought. "This came for you today." He handed me a pink slip that had been affixed to our front door while we were at work.

 I knew instantly what the gem was. My package. This wasn't any old package of goods. This was THE package of goods, straight from Australia. It had finally arrived. Excitement filled my every being.

IT'S JUST DOWN THE STREET, A MERE 3 MINUTE DRIVE--but alas, I cannot obtain this package today! The post office has long since closed. And so I will sit, waiting with much anticipation until my lunch break tomorrow. I will venture to the post office then and finally retrieve the box I have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of for weeks.

Tomorrow, tomorrow...