Each week for a food writing class we spend ten minutes writing about something. This is what becomes of it.

Oh no. Oreos.

I decide right away I’ll only eat three because I know that’s a serving because that’s what my mom always allowed. Oreos came only with rules in my house.

First comes the synthetic chocolate scent in the air–the unmistakable smell of oreos.

My hand moves uncomfortably from the cookie to my mouth without taking its normal pitstop in a glass of milk.

It’s too soon, it’s not right, it’s too crunchy, it’s unnatural.

But after a few seconds of chewing, it doesn’t matter anymore.