This week: Chocolate Creme Joe-Joe’s
KR: The stereotypical theater kid… I appreciate your enthusiasm. I really do. But only in doses that are so small that they are almost non-existent. Your constant pep is nerve-wracking and being around you is physically taxing. Sometimes when I am walking down the halls, nose buried in a textbook, your random bursts of singing are not exactly what I am in search of. On the outside you are pretty plain, the occasional flair of a studded belt or droopy velvet cap, but on the inside…oh man. The amount of sugar and caffeine I would have to consume to even dream of reaching your level is out of this world.
MJ: I like my JoJos like I like my men: female.
CS: You aren’t nearly as sweet as the traditional one next door. You are the perfect after-dinner treat. But in moderation. You are down to earth and consistent. You aren’t mind-blowing though. Don’t get cocky. You aren’t all that. You need more spice. More pizzazz. Some cinnamon? A dash of coffee? Maybe it’s the lack bitterness. You need some umph baby. I want to put ice cream on you and mash you up. That would be delicious. You can be dry sometimes and you just need something cold and creamy on you. That’s all. Winky face emoji.
JG: When Jeremy Irons accepted his Best Actor Oscar for his role in Reversal of Fortune, this portrait of a cookie as a young man was born. When you first meet this character behind your French professor’s favorite bowling alley, you’re expecting an indulgent East Coast snob straight off the bus from Fort Worth. Little do you know the humility this former sous chef puts forth every minute of every hour of every day of every solstice. It really put me through the emotional ringer, sending me through bits of agony, rage and appendix-bursting hilarity before settling on a serene calm from which I’m yet to emerge. Bask in the sunshine with me. With this cookie, you’re about four five seconds from spiritual cleansing.
SK: You’re the year-long hookup that should’ve been a one-night stand.
AK: He won your heart the second he wove that friendship bracelet in the crafts and arts room. His paper-machéd replica of your face, so realistic and captivating you nearly forgot you were trapped at the summer camp your parents forced you into after you cut your babystitter’s hair. After sharing your first grade-A hand hold by the lake, you knew he was the one. The one whose skateboarding talents impressed your bunkmate enough that she finally promised to stop shoving you in the mud. His recipe for gorp, nearly sensual, his knot-tying capabilities, truly sophisticated, his brand new boots his mom sent him from REI, so lusciously leathery they could launch a thousand small canoes filled with swimming incapable campers in life jackets.