An ode to Little Debbie
Last week some coworkers were having a lousy, stressful
afternoon, so I offered them one of my Cosmic Brownies. No,
not one of those “cosmic” brownies.
I’m talking about the fudge-covered, candy-sprinkled, individually wrapped
trifles from snack cake purveyor Little Debbie. Suddenly the room lit up and
everyone started sharing stories of childhoods spent cramming countless Fudge
Rounds, Zebra Cakes, and Star Crunches down their gullets. Everyone, it seems,
has a favorite Little Debbie snack. And as we engaged in a little sugar
coma-induced nostalgia, it got me wondering: Who is this elusive Little Debbie
who has fattened up America’s
youth for years?
Visions of a precocious, business-savvy orphan danced in my
head. Perhaps, after making a fortune selling tasty, low-cost treats by the age
of 12, she became a jet-setting teenager who won over socialites the world
’round with her charm, those freckles and the secret recipe for her addictive
coffee cakes (my friend regularly eats an entire carton when depressed). Maybe
after a string of failed marriages to Greek shipping heirs (are you paying
attention, Paris?)
she wound up a cranky, sherry-swilling divorcee who spent her twilight years
preying on the pretty young things at Chateau Marmont.
Surely there must have been a feud or two with fellow kid magnates Shirley
Temple or Wendy Thomas.
Who knows? All I can get from the Little Debbie website is
that in 1960 O.D. McKee wanted a catchy name for his new line of pre-packaged
oatmeal cream pies and he picked his red-headed granddaughter. The rest remains
a mystery. But I suppose we already know what’s important: Little Debbie cakes
are delicious, cheap, terrible for you and fortified with enough kitsch to make
them an instant hit with the post-ironic crowd. And for all that, Little
Debbie, we are forever in your debt. Now give me another Fudge Round.
This article appears in May 24-30, 2006.
