Snack Cakes from Space
© The Author, 2005
The Old Coney Shoppe sits snuggly, beneath the el tracks by the Harold Washington Public Library. Its rival, 7-11 stares at the shoppe inconsiderately from across the street. Worse still, a Dunkin’ Doughnuts is less than thirty paces away from both. With two reliable, brand name snacking outposts competing for el rider’s caloric intake, one might suppose that Old Coney’s livelihood might be threatened. Indeed, things appear bleak—the quiet, unassuming shoppe is the last snack outpost that a pedestrian sees walking south west from the el, a place for those whose inner battle to snack or not to snack took longer than anticipated, a place for the unsure, the hesitant, the penny pincher. But alas, The Old Coney Shoppe neednt worry about survival in this crewel world of chain stores and stingy consumers, for it has something that 7-11 and Dunkin’ Doughnuts will never have: The Only Moon Pie On The Planet.
When spending weekends with my dad as a child, I was often pawned off to random family members while my dad saw to more important matters (i.e. tending to the roach infested the slums he rented out, assisting his brother with drug related items, and devouring fistfuls of Taco Bell at an alarming rate—you know, all the usual obligations that keep a man from spending time with his family). One happy upside to this abandonment was that without it, I would have never become acquainted with the oddest food in the world. I am of course referring to the Moon Pie.
My dad’s grandparents indulged in many culinary conundrums as a result of originating from the groggy backwaters of Alabama: pigs’ feet, snout, giblets and gravy, chickens’ claws, Tab Cola, chocolate crème pie, and biscuits included in every meal of the day. Most importantly though, my great grandma and grandpa had a hankerin’ to sink their teeth into a Moon Pie frequently enough for them to keep a box full of the sweet snacks in the cupboard.
A Moon Pie is composed of three layers of dry, crumbly, lifeless, and inherently stale dough product flattened into disks. These disks are crammed up against a white paste of sticky goo posing as marshmallow and arranged in a style that the sandwich community refers to as a “double decker.” The entire monstrosity is coated in a light crust of chocolate-y substance that is distributed in absolute perfection over the entire arrangement—no areas thicker or thinner than others, sides included. It is this last flourish, so fancy that the human mind can barely comprehend it, that makes the Moon Pie a miracle of science, a leader in the forefront of food processing. And at my great grandma and grandpa’s house, a Moon Pie was the great reward for surviving the moth-ball boredom that a child is doomed to experience upon spending significant time at a really old person’s house.
I had long forgotten the undeserved, yet profound dignity of the Moon Pie until about two weeks ago. Shaun and I were having a lively debate over snack cake preference (we never actually eat snack cakes), when I was reminded of the crumby texture of a Moon Pie struggling to be washed down my gullet (saliva alone is rarely enough for this challenge—a glass of milk, or a Pepsi Cola is oftentimes needed to push the cake completely down). Suddenly inspired, we were out the door and trekking to Wallgreens to sequester a Moon Pie.
To my dismay, Wallgreens doesn’t carry Moon Pies. Neither does 7-11 or Jewel Osco!!! None of the bodegas stocked the sinfully distasteful snacks either. Were Moon Pies a thing of the past? Had they gone the way of Jolt Soda, Garbage Pail Kids, and Slap Wrist bracelets—other relics of my childhood that evaporated into thin air once the nineties were in full effect?
With thoughts of lost Moon Pies swimming in my head, Shaun and I settled down to watch a movie last night. What the Bleep Do We Know?!?! is a fascinating documentary that explores the ways in which quantum physics affects humans on a molecular level. According to the sources in the film, time is not linear and thoughts influence our bodies, behaviors, and realities more than anyone had originally presumed. It is a difficult film to rationalize without sounding like a nut-job, but I highly recommend this movie to anyone (don’t be intimidated by the quantum physics—I went to art school and this movie kept my rapt attention). Just watch the movie, and watch it with friends—you are going to have an amazing post-show discussion. My head has been buzzing with the film all day.
Anyhow, in What the Bleep Do We Know?!?!, the idea that humans can will realities into existence is perpetuated. I have always been a firm believer in this, and this thought gives me strength when I volunteer and attempt to tread lightly on this earth. It is the strength that I draw from to carve a place for myself in this world—it is why I can see a few bits of the future so clear that I can actually draw them up as if they are memories, when in fact they haven’t happened yet. It was good to have a reminder and a celebration of these ideas, and the film really rejuvenated me. This morning, on my run my inner monologue joked that I would will a Moon Pie into my reality today.
I am not a morning snacker. I am not a snack store shopper. But today I stopped into The Coney Shoppe on my way to work and upon walking through the door, I was greeted by a shiny, squeaky-clean package of Moon Pie. It was the last Moon Pie on the rack, backed by an eager row of strawberry zingers. In awe, I snatched the Moon Pie up and laughed out loud at the slogan streaked across the wrapping. The slogan proudly proclaimed, “Moon Pie—The Only One on the Planet!” Indeed it was.
Perhaps one day I will hone my ability to will bigger, more useful things into existence, but considering my Moon Pie was the last one on the planet, I’m not off to a bad start. 
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What magic have you willed recently?
