REVIEW: Pringles LOUD Crisps (Mighty Margherita Pizza and Salsa Fiesta)

Pringles LOUD Crisps (Mighty Margherita Pizza and Salsa Fiesta)

I have a confession to make: I love eating ketchup on Pringles. I love it to the point where my posture is currently italicized just thinking about it.

Pringles and ketchup is a tradition passed down in my family for generations. I’ve made intricate catsup illustrations on Pringles canvases that would make a Subway sandwich artist‘s cold cut craftsmanship look like a kindergartener’s elbow macaroni picture frame.

Heck, I even have the family record for most ketchup-squelched Pringles stacked and eaten in one bite (thirteen).

So imagine the personal offense I take when people scoff —- if not outright wretch -— at me for sharing this tasty tradition with them. Sure, some rational souls agree that, since ketchup on French fries is good, it should work on Pringles, too. And sure, Ketchup Pringles exist in Canada. But most Americans react like I just sneezed unshaken ketchup water on them.

Thankfully, Pringles seems to be on my side, as two of their five new LOUD Crisps varieties prominently feature the humble tomato. This line of “bolder flavored” and “epically crunchy” crisps also includes Spicy Queso, Super Cheesy Italian, and Fiery Chili Lime, but I’m here to tell you about the ones that will (hopefully) bring glory to the “ketchup and Pringles” name: Mighty Margherita Pizza, which swaps the brand’s traditional “potato-flavored crisp” base for one made of grains and more vegetables than a Biblical children’s show, and Salsa Fiesta, which builds its flavor party on a dance floor of corn flour.

Pringles LOUD Mighty Margherita Pizza Crisps

From Ducks to Morphin Power Rangers, “Mighty” things tend to be pretty great, and original Pizza Pringles are my all-time favorites, so I expected big things from Mighty Margherita Pizza.

These new crisps smell just like Pizza Pringles, but their taste is a bit more artisanal. They open with a familiar pop of tomato paste, garlic, and onion, but quickly fade into a more complexly sun-dried and herbal tomato back end. These late flavor notes also smack of tangy basil and spinach, making it feel like Julius Pringle gave a Godfather-esque Kiss of Death to my taste buds. Pleasant at first, this aftertaste becomes peppery and bitter enough over time to make my tongue “sleep with the fishes”—by which I mean, “yearn for a glass of water.”

What really irritates Don Dan about Mighty Margherita Pringles is their supposed “LOUD” crunch. Despite being made with a grain and vegetable blend that gives them a subtle carroty finish, these Pringles LOUD Crisps are no louder nor crunchier than normal Pringles.

Instead, they just feel like the hipster, organically cauliflower-crusted pizza version of original Pizza Pringles. If plain Pizza Pringles are Papa John’s, Domino’s, or Little Caesars, then Mighty Margherita Pizza is Father John Misty, Settlers of Catan, and Little Hannibals —- you know, the guy who crossed the Alps to invade Rome before it was cool.

Pringles LOUD Mighty Margherita Pizza Crisps 2

Oh well, at least they make great hyperbolic hors d’oeuvres when you top ‘em like Lunchables.

Pringles LOUD Salsa Fiesta Crisps

Even though Mighty Margherita Pizza was pretty good, I hoped Salsa Fiesta would be better. These crisps’ feverish appearance made me think they’d have more tomato taste, and I was right. While M.M.P. oozes the vine-ripened juiciness of a wise old tomato, Salsa Fiesta strikes fast with the aggressive and salty zest of a sassy vine-dropout.

This punchy tomato taste fades quickly into notes of tongue-prickling red onion and mouth-watering green chile. On their own, these flavors might be spicy, but their burn is tempered by Salsa Fiesta’s delightful aftertaste of roasted corn and black bean dip. It’s a very tasty re-creation of the “tortilla chips and salsa” restaurant ritual, but it’s also over far too soon, as the airy crisps completely dissolve into the ethereal Pringles beyond before I can say “holy frijoles!”

Pringles LOUD Salsa Fiesta Crisps 2

And even though a mild salsa makes a great pairing for these zippy Salsa Fiesta Pringles, their fragile paraboloid slopes tend to crack under the pressure. Be sure to have a platoon of rescue chips handy to fish these fallen chips out of their juicy graves.

Overall, if you’re a fan of tomatoes ‘n’ taters like me, the respective veggie and corn bases of Mighty Margherita Pizza and Salsa Fiesta will bring starchy satisfaction to your catsup-coated carb cravings. The sweet ‘n’ tangy sauciness and contemplative herbs of Mighty Margherita Pizza make for a great evening snack, while the peppery jabs of Salsa Fiesta are perfect for a bustling party.

But if you hate tomatoes and oxymoronically quiet “LOUD” Crisps, you might want to pass these up for something with more bulk —- or extreme nacho cheese.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have two new Pringles flavors to shamelessly slather with Heinz.

(Nutrition Facts – 14 crisps – Mighty Margherita Pizza – 140 calories, 60 calories from fat, 7 grams of fat, 2 grams of saturated fat, 0 grams of trans fat, 0 milligrams of cholesterol, 200 milligrams of sodium, 18 grams of carbohydrates, less than 1 gram of fiber, 2 grams of sugar, and 2 grams of protein. Salsa Fiesta – 140 calories, 60 calories from fat, 8 grams of fat, 2 grams of saturated fat, 0 grams of trans fat, 0 milligrams of cholesterol, 310 milligrams of sodium, 18 grams of carbohydrates, less than 1 gram of fiber, 1 gram of sugar, and 2 grams of protein.)

Purchased Price: $1.40 each
Size: 5.1 oz. can (Mighty Margherita Pizza)
Size: 5.4 oz. can (Salsa Fiesta)
Purchased at: Meijer
Rating: 7 out of 10 (Mighty Margherita Pizza)
Rating: 8 out of 10 (Salsa Fiesta)
Pros: The savory French kiss of a Pringles Mafioso. The taste bud-smacking sadism of juvenile salsa delinquents. Elegantly stacking Pringles with feta and Chipotles. Ancient pizza elephant warfare.
Cons: Crunching not with a bang, but with a whimper. Herbs that overstay their welcome. Crisps more fragile than a leg lamp. Un-elegantly cramming a stack of 13 Pringles and ketchup into my mouth.

REVIEW: Subway Corned Beef Reuben Sandwich

Subway Corned Beef Reuben Sandwich

I don’t care what the textbooks say. I don’t care about the debates over the Reuben sandwich’s origins: whether it originated from a Nebraskan grocer’s weekly poker ritual or from a New York delicatessen’s signature “Reuben Special.”

In my eyes—and taste buds—the Reuben was obviously invented by Ruben Studdard. I mean, what else could Ruben have been up to after winning American Idol Season 2, while the more famous runner-up Clay Aiken became a Christmas album mainstay in my grandma’s CD player for years?

And before you ask how Ruben could invent the Reuben when the sandwich first appeared in the 1920s, the answer’s time travel. Duh. Next question.

Okay, that explanation may be more impractical than a Reuben Goldberg machine, but I needed a slipshod introduction for a sandwich as slipshod as Subway’s new Corned Beef Reuben. Because as I soon found out, expecting a fast food joint to do justice to the Reuben’s nearly 100-year legacy was a bit unrealistic.

Subway Corned Beef Reuben Sandwich 2

But let’s start with the rye highs. The popularity of Subway’s Italian Herbs & Cheese and Honey Oat breads suggests that consumers like their bread studded with enough stuff to make a BeDazzler blush, and Subway’s new Rye bread fulfills that desire by baking lightly crunchy caraway seeds into every sub.

The bread itself is dense, earthy, and spiced, while the seeds pop with a sweet anise bite. The taste may be slightly too sour for Hawaiian roll or Wonder Bread veterans, but fans of aged, yeasty bread will appreciate its subtleties.

My only gripe is that the rye isn’t marbled, though that kind of doughy swirl might’ve looked too much like a rolled yoga mat for Subway’s liking.

Meat and cheese are this Reuben’s other strongest elements. While the corned beef isn’t particularly juicy, potently peppered, or too different from Subway roast beef, it’s still thick, tender, and salty enough to give the sandwich a savory, meaty twang.

By which I mean you’ll want to twang an acoustic guitar string after each bite.

The Swiss cheese is an underrated, binding force in Subway’s Reuben. It may have all the complexity of a melted Kraft Single, but it still brings creamy dairy balance to the bread and sauerkraut’s sourness.

Speaking of the sauerkraut: it’s bad, and that’s coming from someone who adores sauerkraut enough to give it an honorary seat at his wedding. Subway’s sauerkraut is far too wet, mushy, and flavorlessly acidic, lacking the light crispness and pickled intricacies of good sauerkraut. But I suppose if I were mashed into a cube and left under Subway’s sneeze guard all day, I’d feel sad and squishy, too.

And the Thousand Island Dressing? It’s barely there, providing a light, underlying fatty flavor with faint mayo and tomato notes. I’d say I only tasted three islands at most, and one of those was Rhode Island, whose authentic island status is questionable at best.

Subway Corned Beef Reuben Sandwich 3

Eating the sandwich together, I mostly taste a sour-sweet war between sauerkraut and bread, while the Reuben’s less flavorful, meaty and creamy children beg their parents to stop fighting. It’s far from authentic, and your limited Reuben enjoyment will hinge on your ingredient balance: I recommend going light on ‘kraut, doubling up on cheese, and getting dressing on the side to add at your discretion.

Better yet, take the $5.25 you could’ve spent on a 6” Subway Reuben to Walmart deli and buy enough loose ingredients to assemble a much tastier haphazard Reuben in the parking lot. Just don’t forget to play Clay Aiken’s Merry Christmas with Love in the car while you do it.

(Nutrition Facts – 6” sandwich, no vegetables – 450 calories, 15 grams of fat, 4.5 grams of saturated fat, 0 grams of trans fat, 85 milligrams of cholesterol, 1770 milligrams of sodium, 42 grams of carbohydrates, 6 grams of fiber, 10 grams of sugar, and 38 grams of protein.)

Purchased Price: $5.25
Size: N/A
Rating: 4 out of 10
Pros: BeDazzlingly good rye bread. Guitar strummingly decent corned beef. The complimentarily congealing properties of a Swiss Kraft Single. Parking lot deli sandwiches. Sending my warmest regards to Ruben Studdard, wherever he may be.
Cons: Not authentically Reuben-esque (Reubenic?) enough to justify the cost. Sauerkraut that leaves me sour. Thousand Island Dressing that’s 997 islands short. Not being able to make a “Why? Bread” joke because the bread was actually good.

REVIEW: Hostess Limited Edition White Peppermint Twinkies

Hostess Limited Edition White Peppermint Twinkies

It’s mid-November. Even though our nation’s turkeys still await their presidential pardons (if they’re lucky) and ‘ducken-ings (if they’re not), grocery store shelves have chosen to completely ignore Thanksgiving and just put out their merriest wares. I kind of wish seasonal snacks would go from “Monster Mash” to “Potato Mash” instead of jumping straight to “Assorted Non-Denominational Red & Green Mish-Mash,” but it’s hard to stay mad when a box of sprinkled white fudge cylinders sits in front of me.

I’m going to try my best to review Hostess’s new White Peppermint Twinkies, but be warned: my favorite radio station is already playing Christmas tunes, and I get distracted easily.

Hostess Limited Edition White Peppermint Twinkies 2

I’m dreaming…of a white Twinkie
Just like the Ghostbusters ones from not long ago
But this one’s red sprinkles glisten
And it’s so fun to listen
As they crunch like feet on snow

The white fudge on every White Peppermint Twinkie is reminiscent of this summer’s marshmallowy Twinkies: a nearly cloying white chocolate that’s blended with confectioner’s sugar and a hint of vanilla. But this new stuff also feels fudgier, oiler, and more buttery, almost like freshly iced sugar cookies. These Twinkies must’ve been made by the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man’s loving grandma.

The icing on this icing’s cake is the sprinkles. They don’t bring any noticeable bursts of sugar, but these Twinkies don’t need more sugar—I’m already writing this at 120bpm. The sprinkles do provide a neat crunchiness that contrasts all the creamier elements, which is much needed: if I wanted to eat a tube of pure mush, I’d rather suck down a roll of Pillsbury Holiday Shapes cookie dough like it’s a reindeer-stamped popsicle.

Peppermint bark! this Hostess angel cake brings
“Glory to its clear wrapping!
Light on bite and mercifully mild
Mint and chocolate, reconciled”

You’ll notice I didn’t mention the peppermint taste yet. That’s because there isn’t a lot of it. Like custardy peppermint bark, White Peppermint Twinkies only have a mellow undercurrent of candy cane flavor. It won’t prickle your taste buds, freshen your breath, or produce a tracheal chill when you breathe inwards, but this peppermint pulse is still a refreshing complement for the chocolate: just imagine a gelatinous, doughy Thin Mint with an inverted color scheme.

Hostess Limited Edition White Peppermint Twinkies 3

I’ll try the sponge cake,
(But baby, it’s dry inside)
the cream for old times’ sake
(But baby, it’s bland inside)

It’s not all winter wonderlands and tubular Girl Scout cookies, though. At the heart of every fudge-slathered Yule log lies a ho-hum combo of cake and cream. The cake layer seems more aerated and floury than usual, leaving me to wonder whether Hostess ran out of golden Twinkie sponge cake and started coating rolled Wonder Bread in white chocolate instead.

The cream filling is up to Hostess standards, but that’s the problem. It just tastes like sugared whipped cream, without a unique twinge of mint, fudge, or Christmas magic. I bit in expecting a delightful Twinkie stocking stuffer, but it turns out that the stocking was the most fun part.

Fros-ted white chocolate
Could lead to a jolly happy whole
But boring cream and cake that blows
Make this a Twinkie without soul

I wanted to adore White Peppermint Twinkies, but I merely like them. Like a holiday light show on a house without a tree inside, these cakes’ Scrooged-up innards betray their exciting exterior. I recommend buying these Twinkies for an early Christmas spirit sugar rush or as mantle decorations, but don’t expect to remember them fondly (or at all) come Groundhog’s Day.

Now if we could just get some Mashed Potato Twinkies.

(Nutrition Facts – 1 cake – 160 calories, 8 grams of fat, 6 grams of saturated fat, 0 grams of trans fat, 10 milligrams of cholesterol, 135 milligrams of sodium, 23 grams of carbohydrates, 0 grams of fiber, 18 grams of sugar, and 1 gram of protein..)

Purchased Price: $3.29
Size: 13 oz box/9 Twinkies
Purchased at: Walmart
Rating: 7 out of 10
Pros: Albino sugar cookie ectoplasm. Peppermint that tastes like smooth jazz. The oddly satisfying goodness of a crunchy Twinkie. Daydreaming about Maple-Glazed Yam Twinkies.
Cons: Stuffing plain ol’ year-round cream into the most wonderful time of the year. More like, “fallen angel food cake,” am I right? Not enough mint to please Candy Cane Forest dwellers. Thanksgiving: always the bridesmaid, never the snack food aisle bride.

REVIEW: Mtn Dew Mango Heat Game Fuel

Mtn Dew Mango Heat

If you asked me to write down the flavors that remind me of October, I assure you that “mango” and “spicy heat” would both fall pretty low on that list, right there near the bottom with “overcooked pork chop,” “accidentally ingested Reese’s wrapper,” and “neighborhood bully knuckle sandwich.”

There’s really no logical reason for Mountain Dew’s new Mango Heat Game Fuel to debut after summer, unless the titular flavors are meant to symbolize global warming and all the unsold overstock from Trader Joe’s recent mango mania. I understand that Mango Heat doesn’t need to make sense, since it’s only meant to tie-in with the upcoming video game Titanfall 2, but as a meticulous Halloween fanatic, I want everything I consume this month to taste appropriately spooktacular.

It’s why every steak I eat in October oozes blood, every pizza is extra saucy, and every PB&J has enough J to create an impressive splash zone around me when I bite into it.

So Mountain Dew should’ve just tied this drink to the new Resident Evil zombie game and called it “Blood Orange Game Fuel.” Because as I quickly found out, that’s what it tastes like, too.

Mtn Dew Mango Heat 2

Amidst the wails of my Spooky Sounds cassette tape and the annoyed groans of my upstairs neighbors, the fine carbonated hiss of my Dew became a welcome part of the spooky symphony. But nothing about my first sip screamed “mango!” to me. Instead, it tasted like a carbonated Hi-C Ecto-Cooler.

More specifically, it tasted like Mountain Dew took a carbonated Ecto Cooler, added a splash of Sunny D, tossed in a dash of black pepper, and mixed it all together—by using a Mango Dum-Dum sucker as the swizzle stick. In layman’s tastes, this means Mango Heat’s predominate flavor is “sugary artificial orange,” with a mildly biting tang and an even milder tropical fruitiness.

While its lack of mango is already lame enough to make an ordinary man go nuts, this Dew’s peppery heat is the disappointing icing on an already sad birthday cake—the kind of cake that misspells my name as “Don.” The promised heat isn’t spicy or burning: it’s just kind of annoying. After every sip, a tingling, unflavored aftertaste tickled the back of my throat like one of those sneezes that teases but never comes.

I tried swishing the Mango Heat around in my mouth to test for deeper flavor complexities, but this merely spread the Dew’s unpleasant slimy corn syrupiness around my mouth and made my dentist shudder in his sleep without knowing why.

Mtn Dew Mango Heat 3

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with this Dew’s angsty tangerine juice box flavor. Its “liquefied Velma Scooby-Doo fruit snacks” taste is perfectly pleasant when sipped in isolation. Yet I can’t but help compare Mango Heat to its similar-tasting Game Fuel brother: Citrus Cherry. Since Citrus Cherry is also back in stores, I wish Mountain Dew had been more experimental with this new Game Fuel flavor.

With a color as atomically orange as Mango Heat’s, Mountain Dew could’ve made a vanilla-tinged Orange Creamsicle Dew or a BuzzFeed-breaking Pumpkin Spice Dew. Heck, I would’ve even accepted a nationwide release of 2014’s legendary, nacho cheese-flavored “Dewritos” soda. It’s the most deviant time of year, yet Mountain Dew tried to play it a little too safe.

Mtn Dew Mango Heat 4

If you really like Hi-C’s Ecto-Cooler or Orange Lavaburst, Mtn Dew Mango Heat might still tickle your fancy as much as it does your trachea. The rest of us are better off using it as a glowing Halloween mood talisman.

(Nutrition Facts – 1 bottle – 170 calories, 0 grams of fat, 100 milligrams of sodium, 46 grams of carbohydrates, 46 grams of sugar, and 0 grams of protein..)

Purchased Price: $1.69
Size: 20 fl oz bottle
Purchased at: Kroger
Rating: 5 out of 10
Pros: A stinging high-five between an Orange Starburst and a pissed-off glass of Sunny D. A soda the color of melted jack-o-lanterns. Using carbonation for atmospheric effect. Ordering an “extra large, extra bloody” pizza from Papa John’s. Never having the chance to masochistically taste “Dewritos.”
Cons: Mango flavor that’s as faded as my summer memories. A heated aftertaste that’s as irritating as YouTube’s Annoying Orange. A palette-swapped Citrus Cherry doppelgänger. PB&J stains on my best white shirt. Unknowingly eating the brown wrapper on every Reese’s Cup until I was six (seriously).

REVIEW: Arby’s Smoke Mountain Sandwich

Arby’s Smoke Mountain Sandwich

Smoke Mountain? Really?

I have to question Arby’s name choice for their mammoth new Frankenmeat sandwich. To me, “Smoke Mountain” sounds like an ‘90s RPG level. Or a rundown laser tag arena that’s gotten progressively seedier since the ‘90s. Or a ‘90s punk band that broke up when the drummer’s dad kicked them out of the garage.

Maybe “Meat Everest” would’ve been a better name, since this the tallest stack of meat I’ve ever held between two buns. Plus I’ve always wanted my lunch to conjure up mental images of Sherpas scaling skyscraping mounds of salted protein.

But I guess “Smoke Mountain” isn’t all bad. It also sounds like the name of a late ‘90s reality show, and this sandwich features all three of Arby’s smoked meats—turkey, brisket, and their freshly debuted pork belly—living together under one bun, Real Housewives-style. Plus it did instantly make my car smell like a smokehouse, so much so that I half-expected a pot-bellied butcher to appear in my back seat and call me “Lloyd” in a Brooklyn accent.

I carefully handled my Smoke Mountain like a quiet mountaineer, trying to prevent an avalanche that would spill three kinds of animal onto my carpet. I bisected my beastly ‘wich—which was roughly the size of a baby Mayor McCheese’s head—for a better look (and taste). Slicing through it felt downright surgical.

Arby’s Smoke Mountain Sandwich 2

The durable star-cut bun does a good job of holding its meaty tenants, and even though its chewy, densely floured innards don’t taste like much, the bun never turns to meat juice-soaked mush. The crimson barbeque sauce pocket slathered on the bun provides a welcome layer of peppery tang. It’s zippy, yet not offensive or spicy, like a grown-up Sweet Baby Ray’s.

Arby’s should bottle this sauce and call it “Angsty Teen Ray’s.”

As the world’s second biggest fan of onions (the first is Shrek), I loved the onion strings that bathe in the Smoke Mountain’s barbeque sauce. They’re oily and crisp, yet compellingly lengthy. The kid inside me wanted to slurp them up like onion ring-flavored spaghetti. These noodles lay on a bed of gummy, flavorless cheddar cheese that only gives the Smoke Mountain structural support.

Now that we’re past the window dressing, we can talk meats. The turkey is the most boring. It’s got a bit of Cajun zest that dances around its edges, but other than that, this bird just feels like filler.

The brisket is more complex. It tastes like barrel-aged roast beef, with woodsy notes and the smokiest aftertaste of any ingredient here. If this meaty ménage à trois were a sitcom instead of a reality show, the beef brisket would be its Ron Swanson.

The pork belly is the undeniable best of the bunch, as the diced bits are super juicy and savory, with an indulgent touch of fattiness. Each juice-oozing pig nugget tastes like the salty lovechild of a bacon slice and a BBQ spare rib. And given the size of every piece, the pork belly these oinker wedges came from must’ve been chunkier than my backseat butcher’s.

Arby’s Smoke Mountain Sandwich 3

But even though each part of the Smoke Mountain has its own flavorful intricacies, most people who buy a sandwich called “Smoke Mountain” aren’t gonna stop to smell the Cajun-zested roses. When this sandwich is eaten at once, only the pork belly and onions prevail, with a lingering barbeque sauce aftertaste. I enjoyed the sandwich, but you’re probably better off just buying Arby’s Smokehouse Pork Belly Sandwich.

Unless, of course, you planned on making an “I Climbed Arby’s Smoke Mountain” novelty t-shirt.

(Nutrition Facts – 800 calories, 46 grams of fat, 18 grams of saturated fat, 1 gram of trans fat, 135 milligrams of cholesterol, 1910 milligrams of sodium, 50 grams of carbohydrates, 2 grams of fiber, 13 grams of sugar, and 49 grams of protein.)

Purchased Price: $6.99
Size: N/A
Rating: 8 out of 10
Pros: Using “fatty pig nuggets” as a sincere compliment. Brisket that tastes aged enough to be my father. Onion ramen. Humming the Price is Right cliffhanger music while I eat.
Cons: A pork belly that swallows up every other flavor. Cheese with the texture of a Fruit Roll-Up. A bun and turkey with as much personality as action movie henchmen. Giving birth to a burger-headed baby.

REVIEW: Limited Edition Cinnamon Donut Chewy Chips Ahoy Cookies

Limited Edition Cinnamon Donut Chewy Chips Ahoy Cookies

The judge pounds his gavel: “I hereby call this court to order. Today we’ll handle the case of Dan vs. Nabisco. The prosecutor may present his case.”

I’ve decided to represent myself. No lawyer would understand: “Your honor, I’m suing Nabisco’s new Chewy Cinnamon Donut Chips Ahoy! cookies for their misleading packaging design.”

The judge looks at me, as I rustle through my bag and spew crumbs onto the courtroom floor: “If you’re suing them, why are you still eating the accused cookies?”

I roar to life, passionately spraying another projectile sandstorm of sugary cinnamon crumbs across the room: “Because I expected so much more!

“Ladies, gentlemen, and anthropomorphized snack food mascots of the court, I love these Cinnamon Donut Chips Ahoy! cookies. In fact, I love them so much that they’re probably the best limited edition cookies I’ve tasted in years. But it’s the ones we love the most that end up hurting us.

“I present Exhibit A: a package of these backstabbing cookies. Aside from the massive cinnamon donut on the front — which doesn’t actually appear inside — the primary offenders here are the ‘Limited Edition’ leaves. You see, my mind has been conditioned by Mrs. Buttersworth to equate orange and yellow leaves with maple syrup flavoring.

“So imagine my shock and disgust when these Cinnamon Donut cookies contained no maple flavoring whatsoever. All they had was a whole lot of deliciously doughy, buttery, and bakery-fresh donut flavor!

Limited Edition Cinnamon Donut Chewy Chips Ahoy Cookies 2

“But the lies don’t stop there. These disks roped me in with an authentically decadent cider mill aroma, but they don’t even look like real cider donuts! Where are the buxom, golden fried curves? Where’s the coyly puckered hole in the middle?

“They’re both gone and replaced by a granular, hyper-chewy texture that melts in my mouth like half-baked pastry dough. And don’t get me wrong, your honor, these cookies taste like cider donut dough, too. The buttered and browned base is both sugary and eggy, with sweet bursts of cake flour.

“But the apple and cinnamon donut-flavored chips suckered me in for the long con, trying to distract me from Nabisco’s shamelessly maple-free fraud. See, these creamy chips are like coagulated cones of cream cheese glaze. They explode with flavor like a Cinnabon center stuffed with applesauce!

“Their inconsistency betrays them, though. These cookie con men will sometimes lose their subtle apple taste, and sometimes they’ll taste like waxy, floral ‘Fall Harvest’ scented candles from Bath & Body Works. Heck, a couple times I even swore they tasted like pumpkin cheesecake.

Limited Edition Cinnamon Donut Chewy Chips Ahoy Cookies 3

“So yes, your honor, Cinnamon Donut Chips Ahoy! are great limited edition snack cookies. They have all the goodness of raw sugar cookie dough without the salmonella, and all the goodness of a cider mill without the handsy haunted house workers.

“However, it’s tough to justify buying them over real apple cider donuts, unless you’re a maple-loving masochist or the type of person who can’t finish a dozen donuts without them going stale. Because at the end of the day, these Cinnamon Donut Chips Ahoy! aren’t donuts. They’re merely cookies wearing donut Halloween costumes.

“And that, your honor, is both their gift and their true crime.”

The judge, clearly affected by my plight, wipes away a single tear: “I declare Cinnamon Donut Chips Ahoy! cookies guilty, for covering up their felony of syrup deception behind a thick alibi of deliciousness. How would the defendant like to see them executed?”

I pull out my thermos and pour a hot cup of coffee. I’ve already known the answer to that question for days.

(Nutrition Facts – 2 cookies – 130 calories, 50 calories from fat, 5 grams of fat, 3 grams of saturated fat, 0 grams of trans fat, 0 milligrams of cholesterol, 85 milligrams of sodium, 15 milligrams of potassium, 21 grams of carbohydrates, 0 grams of dietary fiber, 12 grams of sugar, and less than 1 gram of protein..)

Purchased Price: $2.49
Size: 9.5 oz package
Purchased at: Meijer
Rating: 8 out of 10
Pros: Authentic cinnamon donut pantomime. An edible trip to the cider mill in late summer. The first ever complimentary use of the word “coagulated.” Coming soon from The Impulsive Buy: 12 Angry Kool-Aid Men!
Cons: Not maple-flavored. Playing for second place against real donuts.. Unexpected Yankee Candle flavor outbursts. Sobbing and bobbing for more apple flavor. A criminal lack of corrugated, scrunched-up donut holes.