"'Tis the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness," said John Keats in Ode to Autumn, to which can be added, "and the season of cut-rate candy made with wax and artificial flavor and partially hydrogenated palm oil or other weird oil sold in bulk bags at Costco of which I purchased several to pass out to little children."
Well, not all of the candy. I reserved the Kit Kats. I have, like, a relationship with Kit Kats. Facebook status: It's totally uncomplicated. They're so chocolatey and crispy. I know all the words to their song.
In other countries, countries with more interesting palates than our own, they're offered in flavors like Melon, Black Bean, and French Cheese. If I had the computer skills, I would do this with them. O, so kicky, those double Ks.
Yes, I realize sugar is bad for me. A poison. Robert Lustig. All that. And yet... and yet... here I am sniffing the bag, inhaling the scent of cheap milk chocolate which follows my olfactory nerve all the way to my brain and takes me back to better times, easier times, younger times before anybody knew anything, when Tang was a breakfast beverage for space-age go-getters that we couldn't afford, and my family shopped in the Generic section of the grocery store with its black and white no-marketing packaging, and Kit Kats were a colorful treat that had snap and verve, and ignorance was bliss.