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via Dr. Ariano

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Mashmallow anatomy

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Post-Easter-Sale Peeps File #28: Gingerbread Men

Description. It's difficult to fault Just Born Inc. for going with a traditional gingerbread-man shape. A standard-issue chick or bunny Peep doesn't fit with the proudly ‘70s burnt-sienna coloring. 

That said, a standard-issue chick or bunny Peep is customarily less likely to engage in a primal-scream exercise with its tiny faux-rosting mouth. 

Or to have cocoa-brown innards resembling a sponge someone accidentally kicked under the washing machine at the lake house in 1975.

Packaging/Branding. That the Gingerpeeps do not appear on the plastic sleeve in the jaws of a fox is something, we suppose; the package isn't terribly notable. 

Gingerpeeps come in smaller groups than their chick and bunny brethren: three to a packet, versus five or ten.

Flavor Profile. The scent aspires -- rather combatively, in this examiner's opinion -- to a Pepperidge Farm Gingerbread Man cookie; likewise the carapace of powdered sugar. Strangely, however, the taste is not unpleasant, though the marriage of gingerbread flavor and Peep texture -- the very opposite of the dense, unyielding dough of the original bread or cookie in its vague, squooshy mouthfeel -- is disagreeably uncanny.

Habitat. Off-brand animated-holiday-special conventions; a pike outside the Peep Supermax Correctional Facility in Catasauqua, PA. 

Field Notes. Alleged to expire in July of this year, the Gingerpeeps showed no signs of deterioration and may suit for doomsday supply.

Revulsion Scale: 5

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Post-Easter-Sale Peeps File #34: Party Cake Peeps

Description. Sold in mini-battalions of 10 chicks per, Party Cake Peeps (that initializing the product leaves us with "PCP" is, we fear, not a coincidence) seek to join the ranks of such "proud" birthday-cake-flavored items as the Confetti Cake Pop Tart and the limited-edition birthday-cake Oreo. The Measly-Smurf coloration of the Cake Peep is, for whatever Carvel-hangover reason, the default indicator of a cake-flavored novelty -- viz. the haz-ure smears of acid-blue icing mining the average serving of Uncle Louie's birthday-cake ice cream in the lab's catchment area. 

Venturing a glimpse at a PCP's innards is, while perhaps not more disturbing, more unexpectedly so, as the optic-white insides of the standard Easter-focused peep are not present. The PCP's guts are a cheese-curd cream color that, alongside the searing blue and contrasting speckles of the skin, do suggest a cake...but one left to fend for itself in an April downpour.

Nor can we adequately describe the surreal experience of looking a Cake Peep in its tiny, brown, depressed, pointy eye.

Packaging/Branding. The angle at which the exemplar Peep is positioned on the package is rather odd. It seems to loom up in the foreground, like the Peep-berg on which the teetering marshmallow-cake vessel behind it is going to shipwreck. But the back of the package offers terrifying cannibalistic thrills, as a Peep in a Merlin party hat supervises a Peeps Party Cake Fondue recipe that, once the melting of chocolate and the arraying of toppings is completed, includes the instruction "Skewer the chicks." Good heavens. It's like a cut scene from a Saturday-morning Satyricon cartoon.

Flavor Profile. The PCP has more flavor than the garden-variety Peep; the birthday-cake taste is somewhat at odds with the gassy mouthfeel of the marshmallow, but far less vile than expected.

Habitat. 50 Shades Of Anthropomorphized Candy parties; gluten-free children's birthdays.

Field Notes. MarshmallowPeeps.com offers t-shirts in this very color.

Revulsion Scale: 11

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Sour Puffs Marshmallow

Berry Christmas, everybody!

One wonders how this chalk-and-Cheez-Whiz sweetmeat abortion occurred. Did an ambitious associate vice president at the Frankford Candy Company -- the same snack-food Voldemorts who brought us Gummy Krabby Patties -- stare at the bowl of Jolly Ranchers in the reception area and think to herself, "Who's a jollier rancher than Santa?", but fail to recall that St. Nick's cash crop is not marshmallows? This is not a "you got your chocolate in my peanut butter" situation, nor a harmonious marriage of two counterintuitive-in-theory flavors a la the creamsicle. This…is a "you got your toenail clippings in my Thunderbird" situation, and yet, somehow, the Sour Puff Marshmallow's nuclear-winterized Santumors reached the production stage.

How recently they reached it is hard to say. The box had no expiration date, but bisecting a Sour Puff for testing was like cutting into a trilobyte.

Packaging/Branding. Straightforward, excepting the cartoon Santa. He's no doubt intended to evince "puckering up at delightful sourness" but instead suggests that horrible rum-breathed creeper at the mall whose hand strayed into your Oshkoshes well beyond what Christmas-list fact-finding would require.

Flavor Profile. The "redberry" does not exist in nature, of course, and the corresponding Sour Puff has a dreamlike "all berries and yet/ergo no berries" ambiguity; the closest real-world analog is the flavored amoxicillin toddlers get for ear infections, and it isn't sour. The green-apple puff is slightly more acidic, but about as convincing as a LipSmacker. In each case the marshmallow center tastes like the very dirt it is likely older than.

Habitat. The stockings of deeply naughty children; the Secret-Santa exchange at that sorority Ted Bundy rampaged through.

Field Notes. In a spirited round of Snack Death Is Not An Option at the lab's winter-holiday fete, the Sour Puffs ranked between "the candied pencil-gripper chunks in Aunt Maudeen's fruitcake" and "vegan flourless carrot cake with extra raisins."

Revulsion Scale: 10

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Birthday Cake Popcorn

Today's field report comes from the intrepid Dr. T.C. Ariano, SoCal lab jefe.

Description. When it comes to feeding their children, the only thing that worries today's mothers more than that their offspring might accidentally smell, see, or hear about a peanut is the specter of creeping obesity. And yet, when Dakota's birthday comes along, and the cupcakes that were JUST FINE FOR US are now verboten, you can't send him or her to class empty-handed -- or, worse, with...fruit. Enter Birthday Cake Popcorn.

Flavor Profile. Though the word "popcorn" suggests that the finished item will be swalty, you actually use air-popped plain popcorn, so there's no "salty" -- just sweet. So so so sweet. What you're going to be tasting is melted white chocolate chips mixed with golden cake mix glopped with M&Ms and candy sprinkles; the flavorlessness of the popcorn is actually kind of a relief.

That said: now that I've made it once, my mind raced with possible variations. Peanut butter chips with chocolate cake! Butterscotch chips and white cake! Reese's Pieces instead of M&Ms! Your own Dr. Bunting suggested substituting Nerds for sprinkles. The possibilities are almost endless.

Habitat. Though it was originally conceived for kids' parties, bring that shit to a grownup's birthday party LIKE I DID and blow everyone's damn minds while they try to figure out what they did to get so lucky.

Field Notes. Though this is not in the recipe, I would advise adding a little milk to the stage where you're combining the melted chips and dry cake mix; you want the consistency of the goop to be similar to a chocolate syrup, and without it the goop ends up more paste-like. No bueno.

Revulsion Scale: 1 (IT'S SO GOOD)

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Waffy Wafer Roll

Description. The dollar-store version of the Pepperidge Farm Pirouette -- a rolled wafer cookie filled with an oversweetened sludge that vainly aspires to a career in cake frosting -- the Waffy Wafer Roll is, well, weird.

The bright-blue coloration of both label and product suggest keee-razy blu razzleberrayyyyyy!; or peppermint; or Smurfs. (…"Smurves"?) But the flavoring is vanilla, so the olde-tyme hoarhound striping of the Roll signifies nothing, save perhaps the possible return of FD&C Blue #1 to active duty after an internal investigation into The Sailor Mercury Incident.

Packaging/Branding. Waffy Wafer Rolls come in a resealable plastic tube with a somewhat confusing label. Are the Rolls partying in a Slurpee? Drowning in a glacier? Whipping up some onion dip? Are those the…Himalayas lurking in the background? What's going on here?

Flavor Profile. A single Roll's phony vanilla flavoring is best described as belligerent; when several are eaten in succession, the more nuanced wafer takes over, but the overall effect is of sugars on the verge of ferment. A top note of leaf mold is present.

Habitat. Winter formals; Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends cosplay costumes; Everest Camp IV.

Field Notes. The sample's shelf neighbor was a container of Sanka from several font cycles ago.

Revulsion Scale: 8

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E.L. Fudge Double Stuffed Cookies

Description. We suppose we could praise the Keebler Corporation's restraint in not describing the product as "simply packed with fudge!", but we will not, as everything else about an E.L. Fudge Double Stuffed cookie is annoying; creepy; twee; fecal; or a horrifying combination of all of these.

The center is "double stuffed" with chocolate crème that from all angles resembles the offal of a medium-sized dog breed. Once the comparison has been made, everything else about the experience takes on a foul undertone. Eating an elf, for example, or what "the hollow tree" might be a euphemism for.

…Fudge.

Packaging/Branding. An unattractive photo of the cookie is set off by the customary overly enthusiastic Keebler-branded gnome, who is either posing as or representing the imaginary E.L. Fudge. We fail to see why a non-cutesy product name like "Keebler Double Cocoa Cremes" would not have sufficed -- or, if this is the moniker the marketing team insisted on, why nobody in the room realized that the phrase "double-stuffed" should have a hyphen. Each cookie is the size of a thumb; a serving contains only two, and those two contain nine grams of fat.

Flavor Profile. Inoffensive, although the cookie itself has a zwiebacky wheatiness that is not indicated in a sweet. The balance of cookie and filling is surprisingly deft, the crème unexpectedly non-grainy (provided you don't examine the Double Stuffed too closely before attempting to eat it).

Habitat. Kate's Secret viewing parties; the dog park.

Field Notes. Dr. Brady reported a vague embarrassment at having to obtain a sample with "Fudge" in the name, and was reminded with asperity by his section chief that nobody forced him to propose "those blobbish Poo-reos" for review.

Revulsion Scale: 8

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Takis Fuego

Description. A tubular "hot chili pepper & lime corn snack," the Taki Fire is a violent cerise in color. This is well past the orangey-red "hot" snacks usually use to denote their fieriness; this is if Hieronymous Bosch stretched out a Corn Nut and dipped it in lye. The average Taki is a bit awkward in size, too long for a single bite but not satisfying when bitten in two, necessitating an annoying snap-in-half/pairing maneuver. Fortunately, death comes for the snacker long before this can become too tiresome.

Packaging/Branding. Takis are a product of the delightfully named Grupo Bimbo; the Taki package, like most Bimbo products, makes up in enthusiasm what it lacks in professionalism. The cross-section of fire on the front, for instance, is reminiscent of a home-movie still, and beset by two testicular limes; the front also depicts a handful of Takis falling through space like Zod and his henchmen when trapped in that pane of glass. The back is just as disturbing, and we don't mean the revelation that Takis have a Twitter account. Rather, it's the information about sodium levels, to wit: a single serving of Fire Takis -- an ounce, or one quarter of a four-ounce bag -- is 18% of the RDA for sodium. And…contains propylene glycol and an "anticaking" agent.

Flavor Profile. Fire Takis also contain hot chili pepper; that, and more vinegar than we use to clean the lab coffeemaker, dominate the proceedings. The heat is cumulative and unpleasant, but though both Drs. Bunting have the genetic makeup required to withstand and even enjoy extremely spicy foods, Dr. Bunting the Elder isn't sure the Taki is a food at all, much less that it has anything else to offer in the way of alleged corn or lime. The spiciness does not augment the Taki; it merely ninjas the taste buds.

Habitat. The losing ends of late-night bets; JetBlue to Vegas.

Field Notes. Conveyed to the main lab according to correct postal hazmat protocols by Dr. Barkenbush.

Revulsion Scale: 10

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Miaow Miaow Cuttlefish Flavoured Crackers

Description. The spelling of "flavoured" indicates that the Miaow Miaow cuttlefish crackers belong more properly to a field guide of Malaysian snacks. The disodium 5'-inosinate E631 on the ingredients panel, meanwhile, suggests that the cuttlefish crackers originated at the Malaysian equivalent of NASA, and should return thereto before harming an unsuspecting global populace. While each cracker is modest in size, the replication of octopodean tentacle suckers on each cracker may have unwelcome associations with low-budget horror movies for the consumer.

Packaging/Branding. It is highly tempting to note that the crackers "put the 'ass' back in 'Croquets Assaisonnee de Seiche,'" but ass isn't the package's problem. Penis, however, constitutes a significant issue, as the cuttlefish depicted at the top looks like a phallus with streamers. This is in fact what squid and their relations resemble, but given that the package isn't trying to claim genuine cuttlefish as an ingredient, why not leave that association out? …Excuse me: "cuttlefish powder" does appear in the ingredients list. Putting the words "contains real cuttlefish" in a wavy blue box on the front is more appetizing. As…it would have to be.

Perhaps the packagers didn't feel confident in their English, which ranges elsewhere on the bag from baffled ("Allergy Advise: May Contains Trace Of Crustacean, Fish.") to baffling ("The Illustrations on the pack are for decorative purposes only." As opposed to…what? Eating the pack? Turning it in as homework?). The bag also shows the snack itself, at a good half again the actual size.

Flavor Profile. Real seafood flavoring is more subtle (and inoffensive) than ersatz versions. Miaow Miaow's cracker is the best possible realization of a fishy Corn Pop. The average tentacle is quite crunchy.

Habitat. Coast Guard rookie hazing; the Honolulu airport.

Field Notes. Miaow Miaow's "The House of Snacks" tagline may have drawn Dr. Barkenbush to the sample. That, or she's gone all Colonel Kurtz on us.

Revulsion Scale: 9

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Ding Dong (Hot & Spicy)

Description. Ding Dong is, if not the most cluelessly branded in the field of Asian snack mixes, definitely in the top three. Nor does it help itself with its unappetizing visual presentation, a sickly hybrid of small-batch dog kibble and institutional succotash.

Packaging/Branding. For starters, "Dong." Also, "mixed nuts." (Pornographic and inaccurate: Ding Dong contains only one nut, the peanut, and a meager supply at that.) Furthermore, "cracker nuts"; "enjoy your munching"; and the mysterious "cornick." Our researchers have failed to discover whether "cornick" is a real word, but the JBC Food Corp. appears to have snigletted a word for the substance from which Corn Nuts are made. We had to wonder why they didn't also coin a synonym for fava beans, given their unfortunate associations with charismatic pop-culture cannibalism.

The packaging also features a Keeblerian troll daydreaming under a mushroom cap. His ear is the same size as his hand. We give up.

Flavor Profile. Standard and inoffensive, but again, the packaging misspeaks; the only "spice" on offer is salt, and plenty of it (10% of the RDA, compliments of a third of a 3.5-oz bag).

Habitat. The break room at a swingers' club; regional airports.

Field Notes. Submitted by Dr. Barkenbush of the Bay Area collection team.

Revulsion Scale: 8

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C&C Watermelon Soda

Description. Fashion editors of late have advocated adding a "pop of" neon to outfits. C&C's watermelon-flavored soda is both neon and pop, and the product is so intensely hued that we can only recommend its use as an accessory, or emergency light source during extreme weather events, as whatever is responsible for its succulent hue is surely damaging to internal organs -- particularly those of the children who likely constitute the bulk of the drink's demographic. Pre-pubescents gravitate to hyper-sweet ersatzery such as this like kittens to a driveway puddle of antifreeze, and while we hesitate to intrude upon the parenting process, we feel a duty to note that it is much healthier to serve minors a slice of actual watermelon.

Or, for that matter, to trebuchet a 15-pounder at the child's head at point-blank range. Concussions fade; nephritic acid scarring is forever.

Packaging/Branding. The list of ingredients is, it will surprise no one to learn, highly disturbing, not least because the reticent "Red #40" fails to tell a story that quite obviously originates in the same armed-forces laboratory as LSD. And what, pray tell, is "glycerol ester of wood rosin"? (It is, we learned, a stabilizer. The accompanying gallery of art-teacher's-jewelry-esque amber chunks is less than comforting.)

Accompanying this chemical stew is a merry duo of Picassoid kokopellis, one driving a tiny convertible, the other working at a typewriter. We want desperately to believe that these tiny cousins to Fido Dido are demigods in a Dr.-Bronnerian label mythology of some sort, and that the little typewriter guy is notcomposing an angry letter to the C&C Corp that begins, "Dear Sirs: My mother consumed liter upon liter of your watermelon soda while I gestated, AND NOW I HAVE AN EYE THAT TAKES UP FORTY PERCENT OF MY HEAD AND I WILL HAVE SOME SATISFACTION. AND SOME VISINE. PLEASE RESPOND."

Flavor Profile. Like losing an MMA match to an irradiated Jolly Rancher.

Habitat. Delis frequented by high-school students; the Mount Weather commissary; New Jersey. (The company is based there. Obviously.)

Field Notes. Watermelon is not considered a novelty flavor. These are the novelty flavors. Any survivors of a float made with "Red Pop," please report to the Mutter Museum at once.

Revulsion Scale: 12

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Ralph's Yogurt & Berries Mini Rice Cakes

report filed by Dr. D.T. Cole

Description. Someone at Southern California grocer Ralph's knows that barriers don't break themselves down. When rice cakes first made their jump from hippie health stores to supermarkets, they got jazzed up with a light dusting of cheese or cinnamon. Ralph's top food scientists looked at the healthy rice-cake landscape and buried it under a flood of berry sweetness. The addition of what is basically a candy coating to the humble rice cake takes it out of competition with hippie snacks and puts it in the ring with candified treats such as pink-elephant popcorn.

Packaging/Branding. The first thing you'll notice about the bag is the color and texture of the rice cakes. It's very purple and very pink, the kind of colors that laugh at nature. The next thing you'll notice is that they look like hamburger patties. Bon appétit!

The bag also features a checkered pattern at the top which can be used as an emergency Othello board.

Flavor Profile. The berry flavor mélange is listed in the ingredients as "apple, grape, blueberry, raspberry, blackberry and elderberry." You'll have to take their word for it because our lab results came back as "tutti-frutti." You don't buy Ralph's Yogurt & Berries Mini Rice Cakes for the rice so we can't knock it for its overpowering fruitiness but the sweetness is just too much. You're fooling yourself if you think you're eating something healthy with these. Just be honest with yourself and have some Mike and Ikes.

Habitat. The mouth of a 37-year old walking home from yoga class.

Field Notes. The pantone color for Ralph's Yogurt & Berries Mini Rice Cakes is 245M. The shelf life, according to the "best before" date, is approximately one year but we consider that conservative considering each rice cake is positively armored in candy shellac.

Revulsion Scale: 3

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"The Great American Cereal Book" in revi-ew

Considering a career in the alimentary-research field? Think twice, for you will spend many a greyish-green hour whomping room-temperature cream of mushroom onto sidewalks, to compare its similarity to vomit with that of tapioca; grinding off-brand cheese puffs in a pestle until you develop RSI; and horrifying first dates and prospective in-laws by comparing the top note of a lobster cracker to bacterial vaginosis.

But if you can get through a worthy tome like The Great American Cereal Book: How Breakfast Got Its Crunch by Marty Gitlin and Topher Ellis without requiring an Alka-Seltzer or a meditation break, you just might have a future in this business.

TGACB is a tirelessly researched, gorgeously illustrated, and astonishingly straight-faced encyclopedic history of the cold-cereal industry. Readers will learn that SpongeBob and Hannah Montana have their own cereals, for instance, and that General Mills VP John Holahan invented the tiny versions of marshmallows we find in breakfast cereals -- known within the industry as "marbits" -- by cutting up a Brach's circus peanut. (He subsequently eluded justice.) It's also an invaluable window into the metric tonnes of horseshit the naïve American consumer would put up with in decades gone by.

The B.A.R.F. has compiled a (Cheeri-)overview of the lowlights, both the cereals themselves and a few of the more egregious forgotten mascots. We highly recommend experiencing the book for yourselves, however.

CEREALS Barbie Fairytopia  "Girl Cootie Crunch" didn't survive the first draft, evidently.

Crunchy Loggs Without the equally off-putting mascot, "Bixby Beaver," Crunchy Loggs might have avoided the association with turds in the punchbowl. Alas.

Purity Brand Corn Flakes  Presumably the brand no longer exists thanks to the baby on the box, who would put consumers off cereal, babies, boxes, et al.  Sir Grapefellow  Grape-flavored cereal and marbits, presided over by an aristocratic purple sphere.  Tryabita  Per the text, "celery-flavored."  SPOKESCREATURES Apple Jack the Apple Head (Apple Jacks)  Few things gave Dr. Bunting a more severe childhood wiggins than a disembodied head. Happily, Kellogg's discontinued this spokesfruit before her time.  Bozo the Clown (Bozo's Little O's)  Not the only cereal spokesclown, but one of the most dominant vis-à-vis the box art. The "clowns = scary" memo seems to have been somewhat late in arriving to cereal-land.  The Family Circus (Morning Funnies)  Joined equally humor-proof Hi & Lois, Dennis the Menace, Beetle Bailey, and others to promote Ralston breakfast products.  Pronto the Banana (Corn Flakes)  That's what she said.  So-Hi the Chinese Boy (Sugar Rice Krinkles)  "Hi" on what is the -- oh, pardon us. That is not in fact a question at all. The text adds that So-Hi "was typically pictured pulling a rickshaw." Naturally.  Whoo, the Wizard of Oatz (All Stars)  A corollary to "sometimes the parody of a thing is the same as the thing itself," to wit, sometimes trying much much too hard can resemble not trying at all.

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Burger Rings

Description. Dr. Blankenship toted the Burger Rings all the way from Down Under for testing in the home office. Dr. Bunting The Elder does not eat anything which walked on land, but "happily" for her, Burger Rings do not contain actual burger. (Or rings.) The Rings themselves do not contain any resemblance to their depiction on the packaging. As portrayed, Rings do not look appealing, exactly, but they are sizeable, and reminiscent at least of the pub grub they apparently aim to replicate. In real life, Rings look like Totis, but not as red or suggestive of irradiated Spaghetti-Os.

Packaging/Branding. Misleading, as mentioned above, and also counterintuitive. The color scheme probably wants to evoke a browned patty, with black singe marks, and mustard…but the dusky shades bring to mind a mid-eighties office park at night. Australian package notes and warnings provide some interest, although the "When you're done, put the pack in the bin!" exhortation is properly read as "Put the pack in the bin; then you're done." The back label also disclaims that "average values [are] subject to seasonal variation." In what season whey powder is at its freshest is not mentioned.

Flavor Profile. Low. The Ring is revolting in its inception, but almost invisible to the palate. The bouquet is a complicated affair -- a cross between a tire store that doubles as, and has basically become, a daytime social club for old men in coveralls; and stale cayenne. But the taste is…not. It is not complicated; it is…not really anything. A faint zing of off-brand salsa is soon clotheslined by salt and corn, and then all three vanish entirely.

Habitat. The lost-luggage desk at Qantas.

Field Notes. The only winner here is Dr. Blankenship's packing skills, which allowed the Burger Rings to land on American soil with nary a broken O.

Revulsion Scale: 8

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Candy Corn and White Chocolate M&Ms

Description. Ever since that ill-advised promotion 25 years ago during which the Mars Corp. asked America to vote on which color M would replace the staid but reliable beige, the M&M has become progressively more antic in its desire to be all candies to all people. Specialty colors, pretzel fillings, uncomfortable advertising campaigns that ask us not only to anthropomorphize these tiny edibles, but also to infer that they are sexually active -- there is the whiff of desperation.

The candy-corn/white-chocolate M&M pairs that whiff with a much stronger literal one, of candied orange peel rolled in Nerds. Each M is between a classic and a peanut M in size; the colors follow the stripes of a classic kernel of candy corn.

Packaging/Branding. Standard for the M&M family. Our AV technician failed to capture an in-focus shot of the package, but the front features the red M dressed in a candy-corn "costume" and looking too drunk to care what foolishness his overlords have forced him to promote this time. He may also be staggering under the weight of the 35% RDA of sat fats the single-serving package contains. 

Habitat. The trash can at the end of the Montessori school's "harvest fete" buffet table, whisked thereto by a clucking fruit-is-nature's-candy zealot.

Field Notes. Seasonal, fortunately, although we suppose the season of the witch doesn't obey our calendar.

Revulsion Scale: 5

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Snack Rumble: Dunkin Donuts Oreo® Donut vs. Pop Tarts Frosted Cookies & Crème

Two Faux-reo snacks enter; one Faux-reo snack leaves. And takes the appetite with it.

Description. OD: The Oreo® Donut is one of two donuts available as part of Dunkin and Baskin's summertime Oreopalooza. An marriage between one of the most popular cookies in history and a ubiquitous fast-food brand is completely sensible, and the donut itself looks good -- stylish, even, with bright-white icing and midnight-brown Oreo chunks on the top. PT: The funereal coloration of the Tart itself is disconcerting, and not helped by a crooked and unattractive assembly-line-misfire glomp of icing, itself flecked with Oreoid dots that suggest shower mildew, that does not "match" the color of the filling.

More revolting: Pop Tart

Packaging/Branding. OD: Packaging did not apply, but branding qualified as relentless approximately 9 minutes after the promotion began. A row of the speckled rings behind the counter at Dunkin Donuts made an attractive battalion. PT: Standard Pop-erating procedure for the product. The probably accurate, and therefore deeply depressing, assumption by Kellogg's about their customers' native intelligence (step one of the "Toasting Instructions": "Remove pastry from pouch") persists. 

More revolting: Pop Tart

Flavor Profile. OD: Dr. Bunting had the misfortune of sampling the filled-center option, although she doubts the standard-donut version would have fared any better, given that these pastries likely arrived on shelves three months ago. She also admits in retrospect that pairing it with sauvignon blanc constitutes a possibly fatal testing error. In her defense, however, a white-wine drench seemed like the only treatment for rubbery staleness, cookie lumps the color and consistency of the carbon bits in Fresh Step cat litter, and Splenda-papier-mâché crème filling. PT: Puts forth a startlingly accurate facsimile of the Oreo® itself, right down to the zero-tolerance policy for saliva. The proportions are somewhat off -- the cookie/filling ratio is closer to that of a Double-Stuf -- but it tastes better than it looks. Then again, it would have to.

More revolting: Oreo® Donut

Habitat. OD: Homeroom birthday parties; community board meetings. PT: Sorority kitchens; the Duggars' pantry.

Field Notes. Dunkin counterperson: "We still have those? …Why?"

Leaving the ring in a barf baggie: Oreo® Donut