The Oreo cookie is 100 today: that makes it older than not only myself, but my mother. An awesome thought.
My fondest Oreo memory was the time we gots a package of 100 that Mom hid ‘out of reach’ and ‘for special occasions’. Let it be known that in actuality (a) few things were out of MY reach, as I was a Chair and Countertop Wizard able to levitate waay beyond the usual 5-year-old’s climbing and stretching abilities and (b) why WAIT for ‘special occasions’ when every moment was special? (An early philosophy which lives today!)
Thus Mom’s purchase of a bag of 100 Oreos at a “great price” obviously called for a pre-emptive strike crayoned in for a Saturday afternoon.
Now, Saturdays were (for a time – until Mom Got Smarter) the best playdates in the world for us kids. It was when Mom spent 3-4 hours at Dad’s butcher shop helping him field the Saturday carnivores who descended, and when she hired a (series of) babysitter(s) to hold down the fort at home.
Her initial efforts involved ‘mature teens’ who in actually could be lured away from duty by the dual offers of (a) unlimited Twilight Zone television and (b) access to Mom’s coveted candy boxe. Which was largely untouched (as they were being ‘saved for a special occasion’. See my take on ‘special’, above). Given the puzzling fullness of the box, it was actually very easy to convince the teens that the chocolates were in fact Mom’s unwanted gifts languishing and in need of appreciation.
Our latest teen sitter safely ensconced in front of ‘the tube’ (an antique expression nowadays, as ‘tubes’ no longer exist … but Oreos DO!), I proceeded to direct the Commando raid in the kitchen.
Now, TV ads of the times always instructed us on the ‘proper way to eat an Oreo’ so I religiously unscrewed the cookies, lapped up their creamy vanilla centers, and arranged their remains in an attractive geometric pattern on the kitchen table. Sis helped. By the time I was done (a) 100 Oreos magically transformed into 200 cookie pieces. Thus did I invent multiplication at an early age. (b) the big kitchen table could not hold another Oreo half (c) sis was in the bathroom vomiting (what a wimp!)
Lured away from Twilight Zone by the sounds of vomiting punctuated by screams from the bathroom, Babysitter neglected to take in the evidence in the kitchen.
And Mom, having unerring timing, chose to arrive home at that moment.
Let it not be said I didn’t volunteer to clean up the cookie remains by packing them into my room where I had been (as usual) admonished to “go think about it”. My request for “cookies and milk” to aid in the contemplation process was duly and rudely rejected. (I’d just have to enjoy my books WITHOUT sustenance….but given the amount of creamy centers I had just consumed, ‘starvation’ was apparently an unreasonable likelihood on my part). Mom refused any further assistance from helpful moi and the Oreo halves were summarily wasted disposed of.
The Oreo is 100 today. My mother is 90. That only goes to prove: the truly good things in life ARE AGELESS.
In celebration I will eat 100 Oreos in much the manner of my childhood, and lay their remains in a geometric pattern on our dining room table.
Can’t wait for The Peanut Gallery to arise and shine!
Happy Oreo Day!