No Retreat Baby, No Surrender

Around the turn of the 16th Century, the early Dutch master Hieronymous Bosch created the work that is - to history at the least - his masterpiece. The true and intended meaning of The Garden of Earthly Delights, like many art works of such advanced age, is not entirely clear. We know it depicts scenes from the Bible, with the first panel likely of Adam and Eve and the last describing a ghastly hell. But it is the center panel of the triptych that draws viewers attention: per Wikipedia, that titan of art history, the panel shows "sexually engaged nude figures, fantastical animals, oversized fruit and hybrid stone formations." Nothing gets me hot and bothered like "hybrid stone formations" - I wonder how he knew. This no doubt sounds like a good time to all of us, and, as you may have guessed, gives the work its name.

This post really has nothing to do with any of that. Well, except that Quik Trip now has a donut that is filled with peanut butter. That, friends and neighbors, qualifies in my book as an "earthly delight." Yes, not everyone would agree with me. There are all types of haters in this world. It pains me to say it, but some folks are disgusted at the very thought of such a treat. I imagine them to be the same people who think that putting bacon and cheese between two fried boneless chicken breasts is a bad idea. I weep for their enternal souls.

Quik Trip is the deathstar of Convenience Stores. It is the king of any and all establishments that even aspire to be gas stations. Better yet, they are mad scientists and purveyors of various mutant, death-bringing foodstuffs. Last fall they created a log of processed, formed chicken product, flavored like a buffalo wing - this thing. I had to try one. HAD TO. It was a magnificent culinary experience, and one that shouldn't be repeated ever again.

Insert obligatory "Otto Von Bismarck filled with peanut butter" joke. Here.

Now comes the peanut butter filled bismarck. Imagine it: a basic non-holed donut, iced in chocolate, covered in nuts, and filled with peanut butter. I'm sure it has existed somewhere before - perhaps it has hidden for time immemorial in man's most primal subconscious - but only now has it entered my life. I'll admit, I don't eat donuts often. Now, slow your roll - I do like donuts. Quite a bit, actually. But there is absolutely nothing nutritionally positive about them. In fact, I've seen them labeled as the absolute worst foodstuff on this planet. That, folks, is one hell of a contest to win. The Hardee's/Carl's Jr. Corporation is losing sleep over it. Back on track, when I do consume donuts, I usually don't eat Quik Trip donuts. But we all make exceptions. When I come across a donut stuffed with peanut butter, it is a culinary avenue that I cannot help but walk.

The exterior is like most any donut man has ever consumed. Well, most any donut man has ever consumed several hours after its actual creation. We weren't working with the freshest of products here. Regardless, the nuts were nutty, the chocolate icing chocolaty and delicious, and the actual "donut" was suitably donutty. The surface was not the problem. As with the proverbial rotten apple, the integrity of the shell belies an evil within. We must voyage inside this sugary Frankenstein to find the rub.

But first, a brief digression about peanut butter. I am not a peanut butter snob. I will eat Skippy (or, GASP, store brand) straight out of the jar. I will then use the expensive, natural stuff to spackle my walls. This is one case in which I gladly accept hydrogenated oils into my life. I tend to consider any store bought ground peanut product as "peanut butter," and should you have the wherewithal and neurosis to make your own, I would gladly consider it as the same. But much as there are bastard chicken products (see the aforementioned Buffalo Chicken Roll, or mmmm, Chicken Rings), so there is bastard peanut butter. Case in point: the peanut substance inside of the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I hesitate to call this mutant paste "peanut butter." Indeed, it tastes roughly of peanut butter. You have me there, detective. Other than that, I know only two things about it: 1) it will likely survive long after mankind has perished away from this earth; and 2) that in no way prevents me from eating and enjoying it.

My expectation, upon dropping 99 cents for this bismarck, was that it would be filled with actual peanut butter - the stuff that I routinely eat straight out of the jar.

You remember that time, at your fifth birthday party, when everything was just about perfect? Food, friends, family, presents, petting zoo, balloon animals - never had the world seen a more joyous occasion. And then a Tyrannosaurus Rex arrived. And it ate your friends. And then it ate your parents. And then it took a big ole shit on your bed.

This is like that.

We learn early that most of our most innocent hopes will be dashed by this world. And so, like countless other aspirations, my dreams for actual peanut butter inside my donut died. Violently. Cruelly. But not unexpectedly. The substance inside my donut was most assuredly not peanut butter. True, it contained the trapped, tortured essence of peanut butter. If you came across it in a dark alley and it forced itself into your mouth, you'd say it tasted vaguely of peanut butter. But only vaguely. In consistency, it most resembled a pudding. In appearance, it most resembled the vomit of a child not yet consuming solid foods.

Quik Trip, you are Icarus. And you have flown too close too the sun.