While kickin’ it on vacay with mama in my old hometown of Norman, Oklahoma, I stopped as I always do by the superb gourmet shop of my old friend Wampus, whose wacky backstory you may remember from here or here, where I oohed over the blooming maitakes some local’s growing in his basement—I didn’t inquire further


& aahed over imported sugarplum-walnut logs (whose photo I stole from here).


But it was these that had me at “choco.”


For a second I thought they were actually chocolate-covered, so brown was their tinge. For another second I daydreamed about how unspeakably good actually chocolate-covered cherry tomatoes would be & how I should make some. For a final second I got tired from thinking about doing something & instead just bought a package, which Wampus told me came from Boulder; the label reads “PRODUCT OF MEXICO,” but since he’s a Jeopardy! champ—not the board game or some online forum for overgrown problem children but the actual network show—far be it from me to challenge his knowledge of geography. (***UPDATE: The tomatoes are indeed from Mexico; much of this distributor’s produce comes from Colorado, so he just assumed. Shit, I should go on Jeopardy, I can assume out my ass (out of u & me). Meanwhile I’ll keep my eyes peeled locally.)

Anyway, speaking of unspeakably good things,


these babies are, hence the vocaborgasms they apparently give the copywriters of online seed-company catalogs: per one, “both skin & flesh [are] shaded an attractive combination of port wine & chestnut with a comparably delicious & multifaceted flavor”; per another, “these 1-inch beauties boast the most flavorful tomato tang in the family, from their delicious thin skins to their combinations of gels & solids, sweets & meats, in every bite.” That must be one luscious family indeed. Admittedly prone to puce prose myself when the food moves me, I’ll just add that, name notwithstanding, they’re actually less sweet than, say, grape tomatoes—or rather they’re more interestingly sweet, richer & snappier at the same time.

Speaking in turn, then, of waxing rhapsodic, it’s as though Wampus knew in advance the direction this post would be heading when he printed off a McSweeney’s-style list he’d compiled for me to take home, a sort of necessary counterbalance to the benedictions thus far spouted. I’m reprinting in its near-entirety here, cause it’s funnee: blessed be the bile spewers, for they shall inherit the blogpost.


Whatever you do, don’t invite me hiking (or camping) & never ever offer me a granola bar.

I hate pumpkin pies.

Muffins are the simpletons of the cake world.

Everyone has eaten a “danish,” but does anyone really know what a danish is?

I never really understood the fascination with Rice Krispies treats.

I’m not sure who gave me this recipe, otherwise I would be giving “you” the credit.

Don’t turn the page just because you think you have enough shortbread recipes.

Sick of triangles & rounds, I was desperate for a new look.

All of us have our deep dark secrets, those skeletons in the closet we don’t want anyone to discover.

Oh, Nance. Some of us even have deep dark chocolate cherry secrets.