Cereal killer

In the entire supermarket, there is no aisle more wondrous, more whimsical and magical, than the cereal aisle.

That fantastical corridor, brimming with smiling chocolate vampires and mischievous rabbits, has actually resuscitated some of my crabbier moods. When I die, there would be a thousand worse fates than to have my ashes sprinkled somewhere between a box of Fruity Pebbles and those wheat squares stuffed with fake fruit goo.

From time to time, I’ve been known to rail against the evils of processed foods, which generally possess all the chemical integrity of a beaker filled with anthrax. Cereal’s really no different, when you break it down. Even the healthier brands, the ones supposedly made with bran and wheat and the sweat of angels, are loaded with the kinds of additives that ancient Egyptians used to mummify their pharaohs. And thank goodness for that, because if you’ve ever had a spoonful of the “natural” fare that’s made without high-fructose corn syrup, then you know what it’s like to eat a cardboard box wrapped in an old pair of sweatpants.

So sure, I feel a bit hypocritical. But that’s only because I’m a hypocrite.

In all of my newfound efforts to adopt a more natural diet, exceptions are routinely made for Raisin Bran and Rice Krispies, Cheerios and Cocoa Puffs. At their best, they contain a sprinkling of healthful ingredients, buried under an avalanche of synthetic muck that makes Mother Nature weep into her cabbage patch; stuff like lecithin, which could be the name of an evil wizard in a series of fantasy novels, and tripotassium phosphate, which sounds like it could power a jet engine. At their worst, they could eat a hole through a cinderblock on a hot day.

And yet there I am, week after week, standing in that glorious aisle and grinning like a dunce at cartoon bears and elves. There’s something about a pantry stocked with silly cereals that allows one to retain a sense of childhood amidst the worries and responsibilities of adulthood; it’s hard to be concerned about the electric bill when you’re mowing down on little puffs shaped like rocketships, or guiding Tucan Sam through a maze on the back of a box of Fruit Loops.

Even the crummy cereals are redemptive in their way. When I was a kid, the video game giant Nintendo got into the cereal business (an odd pivot to be sure), and introduced a variety in which half the box was filled with pieces that looked vaguely like Super Mario Bros. characters, and the other half with the Legend of Zelda. As far as actual food went, it was pretty bad. Basically a low-rent Lucky Charms, a medium-sized bowl of it would coat your mouth in a film of wax so formidable, it would ensure that your teeth and tongue could survive a nuclear bomb explosion. Since it was mostly sugar, anything greater than the suggested serving amount could blur one’s vision, which I’m pretty sure doesn’t happen when you start your day with a glass of orange juice and half a grapefruit. I can’t even count the number of times I cheated death by pouring a bowl of that uninspired science experiment.

But I’d keep begging for it. Because as terrible as it was, it tickled my imagination. Cereal 1, oatmeal 0. That’s the magic of it, I think: Each variety is a unique concoction, a creative and original work of art. Sure, the creators are men and women in labcoats, trying to find just the right blend of petri dish detritus to get us addicted to nutritionless junk; sure, the artists are painting with preservatives that could fossilize a badger. Take a look, though, at other processed foods. You don’t get overtaken by whimsy staring at a Lean Cuisine. You don’t stand in front of a freezer filled with pre-made pizzas and feel like you’ve just stepped onto a ride at Universal Studios. If you do, then it may be time to review your whiskey intake.

So many varieties, each with the tantalizing promise of a gleeful dopamine blast. In an ongoing effort to trick myself into thinking I’m eating a food more nutritious than cake, I tend to gravitate toward the cereals with nuts and dried fruits; it probably takes a box and a half to ingest the same vitamins and minerals found in a single wedge of orange, but doing the math would destroy my fragile fantasy. Better to think I’m doing good by my vital organs, instead of armoring them under a scrim of toxic waste.

Every once in a while, though, the mental gymnast in me finds an excuse to indulge in the super-sweet, ridiculous sludge that honors the memory of that now-defunct Nintendo cereal. And really, as indulgences go, a sweet cereal isn’t that bad. There are worse things I could be doing to my body, like dousing it in lighter fluid and doing long-jumps over a campfire.

I talk the talk, but I don’t walk the walk. I’m the first to shake my head judgmentally at the prevalence of boxed meals and synthetic foodstuffs; I’m also the first to grab a box splattered with primary colors and sporting a frog wearing a baseball cap. Maybe it’s an addiction. I wouldn’t rule it out.

I mean, have you ever had Cinnamon Toast Crunch? It’s the stuff dreams are made of.