Late night tonight at work as we put a sleeper hold on the October issue, which means I’m left to scrounge up food from one of the two other magazines in the company. (We, the monthly mag, get one delivery dinner per issue. The biweekly mag gets two, I think. The weekly has dinner every night save Tuesday, since they ship on Mondays.) I turned up some low-grade penne alla vodka, with a mini plate full of these things as dessert.
Inside the heavily fried and sugared skin is a single raspberry. I’ll spare you the actual presentation, which involves piling up 40 on a plate, with a halved cantaloupe in the center. That cantaloupe is scooped out, and inside is a thick mucus of chemical caramel sauce.
As if that’s not disgusting enough, eating one of these pointy bastards is like trying to bite into a live urchin. No matter which way I rotate the sugar bomb, a vertex pierces some part of my mouth.
I’ve already eaten nine.
