The other day I was in Target (or “Tar-zhay,” as the elite put it), and was overjoyed to find that, after a long time off the grocery store shelves and days of searching, I finally found Drake’s Devil Dogs. I bought a box and packed one in my lunch. Just one. Thank goodness these indulgent treats are individually wrapped.
So I went to work and shared the news with two colleagues, whom I thought would be somewhat interested. Those who don’t eat such things may know of people who do, so knowledge passed along is always worth hearing about from somewhere. The response I got could have been no nastier than if I had announced that I ate raw intestines. It was as if I had done something wrong, and they looked at me with disdain. I was quite taken aback. One of the two I could forgive because of their tendency to pop the selective blinders on when it comes to some of life’s strange facts, like the existence of scrapple. The other person took me by surprise, and I suddenly felt as if I were back in junior high getting my ego mutilated by the catty girls. I didn’t let on that it hurt. I left the scene, and I enjoyed that Devil Dog as if I had found water in the desert, and the heck with them.
Neither of these people is immune to eating sweets, so it wasn’t that issue. They apparently just wanted to sit higher on the sand pile that day. The problem with sand is that it does slide around, and we topple off, so it’s wise not to alienate the ones who can help when we’re falling: we might even have some food on hand, like Devil Dogs.
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