Ho, Ho, Ho, No, No, No

I've looked all over the house, and my box of Twinkies---purchased the last time I heard that its baking company was going out of business---is missing.

I remember eating one or two Twinkies from the box.  The rest is a fog.  Several months have gone by since I last saw that box.

Maybe someone in the family was eating them on the sly and hid the box in the garbage when I wasn't looking.

That's what I used to do with my Franco American spaghetti cans every Friday during my senior year at the University of Idaho.

I'd head home from my last class, cross the Pullman highway, walk in to Modern Way Thrift Market, pick up a can of Franco American spaghetti---WITH MEATBALLS---and continue walking to my apartment just up the hill from the grocery store.

My roommate Wanda was always at class on Fridays before I headed to Sandpoint, so I was safe----safe to sit there and gobble down the whole can, cold, no less, with a spoon and then stuff it deep down in the garbage.

I did this for months before learning what my roommate did once she arrived home, knowing she was safe to start her gorging.

In her case, it was almost a dozen pieces of toast, with cinnamon, I think OR a box of Hostess Ho Ho's. 

I don't remember the circumstance where we sat down and had a true confession about our Friday afternoon gluttony, but believe me, it was revelation.  

Our penance---from now on feel free to gorge on your weird cravings in public, maybe even in front of your roommate.  Seems to me we may have celebrated by making a bunch of slices of toast and eating every last bite.

The days of wine and gluttony are gone.  Just the wine remains!

I seriously doubt that I could eat a can (by the way, those were not the small cans) of Franco American spaghetti these days.  I feel like rolling across the living room floor after a comparatively small helping of spaghettic. 

That does not mean, however, that I don't WANT to eat that much spaghetti, and I could happily wolf down several pieces of toast, especially if it's made with Mennonite bread.

Well, Wanda doesn't have much choice these days.  Her Ho-Ho's have met their death sentence, and that's before they have a chance to slide down Wanda's throat.  

I'm hearing it may be temporary until someone gets the bankruptcy all wrapped up and when some Twinkie/Ho Ho addict with a whole lot of money buys the business.

In the meantime, I do worry about the absence of Twinkies, even beyond that missing box that I bought a few months ago.

If Twinkies don't come back, our Romain may not either.  

Our Romain lives in Luxenbourg where he practices as a noted cardiologist.  I think he has a wife and at least one child.

For three summers, Romain Ollivier lived with Family Love for a month at a time.

And, for three summers, once he had discovered Hostess Twinkies and Schwan's personal pepperoni pizzas, Romain was quite happy to live with Family Love.

Back in France, Caen, to be exact, Romain's tongue most likely never got to taste a Twinkie.  

Instead, his mother saw that he ate all the healthy French cuisine, always in a formal family setting.

Well, when Romain could sit for hours well into the night in front of Family Love's television set, go to the refrigerator, pull out a Schwan's personal pepperoni pizza, heat it up in the microwave and return to the couch to munch while watching the boob tube, life was good. 

And, then to follow it all up with a Twinkie or two----that was Heaven for Romain.

I always knew to stock up on Twinkies and pizzas whenever Romain was coming.  

And, the last time I tearfully said good bye to him as he headed home to Caen, I also made sure his suitcase had a full box of Twinkies.

Don't know if Romain ever showed those Twinkies to his mother, or any of his family, for that matter.  

I'm pretty confident that the box of goodies went in his bedroom to be put in a secure spot for those moments when Romain felt safely alone---just like Marianne and Wanda---and he could gorge on those golden cholesterol-filled delights to his heart's content.

Speaking of hearts.  I'm wondering if Romain's career as a cardiologist has dampened his attitude toward Twinkies.   I bet not.

I'm betting that Romain, clear over there in healthy Europe, is just as sad as the rest of us about the demise of Hostess treats.  

I'm also wondering if there's anything we can do to lure him back for a visit, now that we don't have Twinkies to dangle.

Definitely not a Ho-Ho-Ho situation.