My husband is the disciplined sort who overindulges only in exercise. That, and the occasional Pop-Tart.
It took me years to notice his Achilles’ snack. He generally abstains from the “Naturally & Artificially Flavored Toaster Pastry.” But he admires Pop-Tarts. Greatly.
When I set out to bake a homemade upgrade, he took an unprecedented interest in my work. Would it be brown sugar cinnamon? Would it be frosted? Would it be ready soon?
I folded and filled, pitting crackly against crumbly, raspberry against strawberry, dimpled against crimped. I offered my hometart to my sweetheart. “Fantastic,” he munched, “if you want a handheld, rectangular, jam-filled pie. But that’s not a Pop-Tart®.” He pronounced the silent®.
True. My final tart, with its all-butter flake, its sticky almond filling, its bright berry bursts, skews less toaster pastry, more flattened croissant. Maybe it’s a concept I can trademark.
Yum! If Bob won’t eat your haute couture toaster pastries, send them my way!!