That’s the word I’ve invented to describe the killing of one’s sense of taste. I came up with it after sampling the unholiest of confectionaries.
Cary is a marshmallow connoisseur. From plain jane white marshmallows (which I’d imagine a mallow snob, if such a person existed, would call “roasting mallows”) to circus peanuts, flavored marshmallows made by Cadbury that you can only get in Australia, hand-made marshmallows, and Peeps, she’s tried ‘em all. A grocery store in Peru had an entire aisle full of marshmallows of different colors and flavors. We also found some silky smooth melt-in-your-mouth marshmallows at the Autogrills in Italy.
Just as there are high quality marshmallows, there are less than desirable ones, too. Cary loves Peeps, but doesn’t care for the “Holiday Peeps” that come in odd artificial flavors like “ginger bread” and “french vanilla”. So it’s no surprise one might happen across a few bad eggs now and then. Combine that with the fact that I’m adventurous when it comes to trying new candy or gum (I heartily recommend “Mint Mojito” Orbit gum), and it’s almost expected to try some duds now and then. However, nothing prepared us for the worst of the worst, an insult to the word marshmallow:
I found this abomination at an “Old General Store” gas station on Highway 11 as Cary and I were traveling back to Charlotte from visiting my Mom for Thanksgiving. I saw the package and thought Cary might like to try them. We had lunch at the General Store, and I opened the bag once we were back in the car. I should have heeded the warning that wafted up from the open bag: an odd industrial smell, not unlike something used to lubricate band saw blades in a steel cutting factory, issued forth. In retrospect, I’m surprised that the fumes weren’t visible, and that they didn’t take the form of a ghostly skull and crossbones as they rose up from the bag.
Stupidly ignoring the smell, I pulled one of the Day-Glo yellow “fries” and handed it to Cary. I retrieved my own fry as she took a bite. I immediately realized that by not taking the first bite myself, I had automatically relegated Cary to the job of guinea pig, and felt a tad guilty about it as I saw the look of disgust wash over her face. She immediately handed the partially-eaten fry back to me. The disgust remained on her face until I handed her soda to her and offered her a mint.
I decided — perhaps in an attempt to purge my guilt — to take a bite. The assault on my taste buds that commenced, like the Orc’s siege on the White city of Gondor in Tokein’s Return of the King, was gruesome and relentless.
The fry had a deeply wrinkled surface which reminded me of aged human skin once it hit my tongue, and it had very little taste until I bit into it. Perhaps the toughened surface of the fry was an last-minute attempt by the manufacturer to protect the consumer’s taste buds from the horror that lurked within after realizing that their product was pure evil, and knowing that, for some reason, they could not stop it from being unleashed upon the unsuspecting public. Whatever the reason, I did not appreciate this protective outer skin until long after this experiment concluded. Once I broke through the unflavored layer, I detected a vague sweet taste. But any effort to concentrate on the flavor of the marshmallow was overpowered by the unsettling texture of it. As I chewed — yes, chewed the fry, I could not shake the feeling that I had a piece of gum in my mouth. I realized that it was taking an unnatural amount of time for the marshmallow to break down as I ate it. I doubt that the amylase enzyme has ever before encountered a more surprising starchy foe.
I did, eventually, manage to swallow the bit of horror in my mouth, and immediately put the remaining piece of uneaten fry back in the package.
As I examined the label on the bag for nutrition information, warnings, or perhaps MSDS information I had previously overlooked, I realized that I had purchased a similar marshmallow product from this same company a couple of years ago. As sort of a joke, I ordered a Mallow Burger for Cary from Stupid.com. I was amazed at how burger-like it actually was. Cary tried it, and said it wasn’t bad, but not great. Had I reazlied that the mallow fries were produced by the same hellish cult company, I probably would have passed them by. Damn my memory. I still have one of the Mallow Burgers in its wrapper on my desk at work, and I have no intention of every opening it. The difference in taste between the Mallow Fries and the Mallow Burger is significant. I could, in the interest of fairness, chalk up the horrible Mallow Fries experience to the fact that these particular fries were aged beyond their recommended shelf life — after all, they were purchased at a gas station in rural South Carolina, and there was no discernible “sell by” date on the package — but I cannot imagine that the aging process alone could turn a pleasant tasting food unto such a detestable one. Besides, Cary in particular likes stale marshmallows; she finds year-old Peeps to be especially good.In this case, my interest of fairness is defeated by a concern for the public welfare. Scientific method be damned.
As it turns out, the organization that produces these vile concoctions, a company called Krazy Kastle, also makes Mallow Dogs, Mallow Pizza, Chocolate Mallow Sundays and, not surprisingly. . . a product called “Tape Worms”
I began writing this blog post about 10 minutes after recovering from the first and only bite of Mallow Fries so that my recollection of the experience would not be affected by time (or nausea). The world must know.