Oreo is, by its own proclamation, Milk’s Favorite Cookie. The king of store cookies- and it is, unquestionably- defines our expectation of creme-filled cookies. Of these, there are only two kinds: Oreos and knock-off Oreos. Consider this for a moment: when you get cookie dough ice cream, it just says that. It isn’t branded by Chips Ahoy or the Keebler Elves. They hold no power over the concept of a chocolate chip cookie. But if you go to your McDonald’s, it’s an Oreo McFlurry you’ll receive. When you pick up a pint of Breyers ice cream, it’s Oreo Blast. And when you are unable or unwilling to pay the King of Cookies its due, you hide behind a shield. A shield named “cookies and creme.”
We are not fools. We see through this facade, and they are counting on us to. “You know what we mean. It’s just crumbled up Or- ha ha, you almost made me say it! Enjoy your cookies and creme, dear guest.” This deception doesn’t trick us, and it doesn’t trick Oreo. The King of Cookies has been waiting for a moment to strike back. Now, it has done so: and the Cookies & Creme Oreo is the tip of the spear.
The audacity of this project boggles the mind. Here is the best store-bought cookie, selling a parody of an imitation of their own product. It is a grotesque mockery of their would-be rivals, finely woven from sugar and flour. To call this a cookie is to sell dramatically short their ambition: this is a snack body horror.
But that is just how bold the plan is- what does it taste like?
I beg your patience for just a bit longer, dear reader. Have you ever bitten into a food and felt transported? Like the flavor and texture whisked you away to another place entirely? I’ll be honest: me neither, I think that’s pretty stupid. But if I were that sort of person, for whom food was a vehicle to other worlds, this is what Cookies & Creme Oreos would do.
I am sitting at my desk, typing a review of a cookie. The time has come to actually try the cookie. I pick up the Cookies & Creme Oreo, and take a bite.
I am in an office. It’s busy, everyone is rushing around. I had something to do… I don’t remember what it was. I’m running late. Something is wrong. There is a Cookies & Creme Oreo on my desk. I pick it up and take a bite.
My home is on fire. My home, my home, of these last thirty years. I built it with these two hands, from oak and birch. I already know there is no point trying to run inside to save my possessions: no doubt the fire took them first. I turn, slowly, to face the man at the top of the hill, his grin malevolent as he looks upon his work. I stare at him, hate burning in my eyes hotter than the flames behind me. There is a Cookies & Creme Oreo in my hands. I take a bite.
Everything is darkness. And then light, and then darkness, and then there is no distinguishing between the two. They are inseparable, they are the same. They spiral into infinity, and I reach into that spiral, and pull out a Cookies & Creme Oreo. It, too, is light and dark: black cookie caging white creme. But even that creme, examined closely, contains more flecks of black- shards of cookie. Does that cookie then contain more creme, which contains more cookie? I am beginning to feel dizzy. I take a bite.
I am sitting at my desk. I have swallowed my first Cookies & Creme Oreo. It is hard to know what to think about it. I pick up another. I take a bite.
It’s okay, I guess.