Teemings
The E-Zine of the Straight Dope Community

Eating Oreos with a Fork

by Fairy Chat Mom

There I was…

Funny, but whenever someone starts a story with “There I was…” I’m pretty sure what follows will be ever so slightly embellished, if not fully overblown. Kind of like that joke - what’s the difference between a fairy tale and a war story? The fairy tale starts “Once upon a time” and a war story starts with “There I was…”

So anyway, there I was grabbing a cart from the corral outside Food Lion. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone grocery shopping, but my wife was out of town for a seminar and I had a hankering for something that wasn’t in the pantry. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but I knew I’d know when I saw it. I followed my cart through the magical self-opening doors and hung a right at the chip display.

I knew right away I didn’t want anything from the deli of the bakery, and all the produce looked entirely too healthy for a temporary bachelor. I had time to kill and at least 15 aisles to explore. Somewhere a snack was beckoning - I would find it. Fortunately, it was getting late, so the store was emptying and I could shop in relative solitude.

How did she do it? How did my wife deal with all the different brands and sizes and unit prices and specials and coupons? I counted eight different types of canned peas - who knew? And the breakfast cereal aisle - the packaging alone nearly blinded me: bright colors, bold graphics, fancy lettering, “Improved” “Fortified” “More Marshmallows” “New Size” - it took me 10 minutes to find corn flakes! I was thankful beyond words that she took this chore as hers. Never again would I whine about doing the laundry. I definitely got the better deal.

I zigged and zagged from meats to ethnic foods, through canned pasta and fruit drinks and diapers and pet food. Somewhere in there was the siren whose song I heard, and at the end of aisle 12, my quest ended.

Oreos.

Two crunchy chocolate disks around a sugary white middle. The perfect store-bought cookie. The snack dreams are made of. The reason I was here.

And all of a sudden, there I was - nine years old, lying under the sycamore in my parents’ front yard, wallowing in a summer day that was interrupted by a moving van pulling up across the street and 2 doors down. A minute or so later, a brown station wagon and a green sedan slid up the drive, stopped, and discharged two frazzled adults, twin toddlers, and a boy about my age.

I looked at him, he looked at me, he came over to my yard and said, “Hi, I’m Ronald Murphy.”

“I’m David Anderson.”

And just like that, we became best friends. I called him Murph, and he called me Ders. We never wound up in the same classes, but outside of school, we always hung together. We helped each other mow our lawns or wash our dads’ cars. We did Little League and soccer together. We rode our bikes everywhere. We even swiped a couple of cigarettes once and hid behind a neighbor’s shed to try them out. As a result, we were both grounded for 3 weeks - and we decided as a result that smoking wasn’t worth it.

In high school, I was on the swim team, and he came to all the meets. He claimed he was checking out Susan DiMartini in her swimsuit, but I could always hear him cheering for me. He went out for tennis, and I let him skunk me just to build his confidence - I’m pretty sure that confidence was the reason for his killer serve. We went to different colleges, but we managed to stay in touch, and we both settled in the same city, got jobs, got married, and continued to be best friends.

The best thing Murph ever taught me was how to eat Oreos with a fork.

That first summer, as soon as all their stuff was unpacked and they were settled in, I went over to see his room. He was so lucky - his folks didn’t care if he tacked posters to the wall and as long as he wasn’t too big a slob, they didn’t care how he decorated his room. My mom was a neat freak - I couldn’t do anything cool in my room. After I got done complaining about how boring my home life was, we decided we needed a snack.

Mrs. Murphy said we could have some cookies and milk. “Just don’t eat all of the cookies. And by that, I don’t mean leave only one!” We decided six each was a fair compromise, so I counted them out while Murph poured 2 glasses of milk. Then he brought out the forks.

“What are those for?”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “This is the only way to eat Oreos!” And he drove the tines deep into the filling and dunked the cookie to the bottom of his glass. When the bubbles stopped rising, he pulled it out and stuck the whole thing in his mouth. His face was a portrait of bliss, so I thought I’d give it a try.

Oh yes, he was right. This was the best way. The chocolate outsides absorbed just the right amount of milk without leaving mush or crumbs in the bottom of the glass. The flavor and texture and coldness and sweetness played on the tongue and all the way down the throat. I never asked when or how my friend discovered this treat, but I decided right then that he was a genius and I was the luckiest of kids to have him living right across the street and 2 doors down.

So, I grabbed the biggest package of Oreos on the shelf, then headed for the milk case. We had non-fat milk at home, but this treat required whole milk - the kind that left a rich coating on your glass. I picked up a quart, proud of myself for checking the “sell by” date. It only took a few minutes to pay for my selections, and I was back in the car, heading home.

I hadn’t thought of Murph in ages. As happens, we spent less and less time together. Our kids went to different schools and our jobs had us both traveling more than we liked. We always managed to get together at least once during the summer and once over the Christmas holidays. E-mails would fly back and forth sporadically, including the ever present “PS - We need to get together soon!”

I pulled into the garage, got out of the car with my sack, and pushed the button to close the door as I entered the kitchen. Burfurd managed to open his eyes and ascertain that I was not a burglar before dozing off again. Great watchdog, that one. I got a tall glass from the cabinet and a fork from the drawer.

When was the last time I saw Murph? I think it was at his son’s graduation. What a proud day that was! His son was heading to college on a full academic scholarship - the kid was a genius. Murph was grinning so hard, I though he would hurt himself. All the while, he declared that he was so glad to have that little leech packed and out of the house. He was a hell of a father.

I slid my fork into the creamy filling, and I stared at it a while.

It wasn’t a month after the graduation that I got the call from my wife. I was 1500 miles away teaching a 2-week long seminar. Murph’s wife had taken him to the emergency room on Friday night. He’d been complaining of stomach pains and when he doubled over with tears in his eyes, she knew it was serious. He was admitted immediately, and he died that night. He was only 44 years old - six months older than I was.

I couldn’t get back for the funeral. But as soon as I returned home, I went to see his wife, then I went by the cemetery. There was a small marker. “Ronald Murphy”, followed by his birth and death dates. My friend Murph. My best friend. He was gone. I stood there a while - a long while - remembering all the years since we’d met. It was over too soon. I missed my friend.

I plunged the cookie deep in the glass, and held it till the bubbles stopped. I pulled it out and said, “This one’s for you, Murph” and I ate it. The cookie was just soft enough. The milk was just cold enough. The flavors melted together perfectly. And I wept for my loss.

I took another Oreo and reached for the remote.