There have been two times in my life where I was in danger of becoming a Grade ‘A’ certified fat-o, once in my early twenties and fairly recently. Both times I didn’t exercise and I didn’t watch what I ate, and believe me I’ve got a sweet tooth. I’ve never been obese of “fat” by any means, but just one glance at my disproportionately gigantic face in pictures that appeared in pictures was a vision of things that just shouldn’t be allowed to exist. The first time I cut back on calories and became an average size with an average pot belly and an even more average sized face that no longer scared children. Right now I’m losing that belly and hopefully getting closer to my goal of not being horrendously embarrassed when I take my shirt off in public. The point of all that is instead of making good decisions, I’d rather overindulge in the finer things in life like cake, ice cream, or whatever sweet treat gets shoved in my cram hole. My favorite overindulgence has to be the Hostess Fruit Pie, more specifically, the cherry version of this particular delight.
The fruit pie is one of the grandest achievements of mankind and it is ranked only slightly behind the pyramids and the forced placement of Leprechauns onto reservations on that great list. It’s hard to narrow down what the best part of the Hostess fruit pies is, the glazed outer shell? The sweet, delicious filling? If I had a gun to my head and was forced to choose (much like the time I forced my friend Todd to choose his favorite pizza topping), I would say it’s that final bit when you get the the corner and it’s just packed full of pie filling. Oh Crom, give me strength not to go buy ten of them right now.
As you no doubt can tell, I really like Hostess fruit pies. I’ve had a strange association with cherry fruit pies throughout my life. They once acted as my Kryptonite. No, I wasn’t chained to a glowing hunk of fruit pie with my strength slowly being drained from me (oh what a delightful dream that would be), but rather they were a device to try to lure me into the arms of a chubby, underage girl. You see, there was a girl that I worked with that really liked me a lot. I wasn’t interested in her mostly because of the underage part, but her diabolical plan nearly succeeded when I was presented with a big box with a gold bow on it near Christmas (oops, I mean Holiday time) at my workplace. After the initial fear passed that the box might possibly contain the severed head of someone or something that I loved, I opened it to find it packed, and I mean packed, with cherry fruit pies. By god, it was if she had consulted with Satan on how to lure men to their doom. Still, I managed to hold out and turn her down. Then I went home and I ate the pies like a ravenous pig gorging itself on a mob boss’s body. To this day I still fondly look back on, “The Year of the Pies.”
Anyway, let’s take a closer look at the Hostess fruit pie shall we? For me, the real magic of the fruit pie lies in its lovely yet terrifying nutritional stats. It’s singularly one of the tastiest confections to ever grace my food orifice and one of the poorest things that could actually qualify as “food” aside from a roasted plague rat. The list of ingredients closely resembles the death gas the Red Skull uses, except fruit pies contain more cornstarch. The calorie count is enough to make Slim Goodbody’s horrific skinless body explode in anger. Cherry has 470 calories, while Lemon has a whopping 500. That means a fruit pie is 1/3 the average daily calorie count for a woman or 1/4th for a guy. On the plus side a fruit pie would make an excellent fuel source if you were freezing to death. There’s enough fat in one of these things to start a blazing fire. In fact, Luke Skywalker survived the icy climate of Hoth because the Tauntaun’s inner fat lining is actually made of Hostess fruit pies. You see the fruit pie is the main source of food for Hoth’s indigenous Tauntaun. It’s true, I read it on Wookiepedia.
Let’s also just take a moment to give a fuck you to all those imitators of the Hostess fruit pie. You know who you are.
I always thought an interesting experiment would be to try and replace one day’s worth of calories into four Hostess fruit pies eaten at various intervals. I’d also have to consume them with milk, because that is the only proper way to eat a Hostess fruit pie. (The British eat them with fried tomatoes and lamb’s scrotum). The only drawback to this experiment is that I’m afraid I might turn into some sort of disgusting blob creature or my heart might stop instantaneously in a sort of coronary strike. Who knows, I just might try it for the sake of delicious science and comedy. Regardless, the fruit pie is a sweet mistress who takes all my troubles away by ushering me to a land of gum drops, teddy bears, and giant mechanized walking tanks (or G.M.W.T.s for short). All I can say is thank you Hostess for bringing this singularly enjoyable thing to the world. To semi-quote the sci-fi wizards of space rock Coheed and Cambria: “Dear Fruit Pie, I love you. When I go to sleep, your shape is all I see.”
This post was originally published on Digital Monkey Box and it is revised and reposted here with my permission.