Pop Geek

Husband, father, writer, marketer, public relator, geek.
Matt Springer
Matt Springer

Thirtysomething someone living in Orlando, FL with my awesome wife and two great kids.

I have two books, Unconventional (fiction about three geeks and an eventful weekend at a sci-fi con) and Poodoo (commentary on the Star Wars films and geek culture). I also tweet incessantly.

By day, I do marketing, public relations, social media, and copywriting. By night, I sleep.

       

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Matt Reviews the Snack Machine: Brownie Crisps from Basil's Bavarian Bakery

If you're like me, the words "brownie" and "crisp" should never be uttered in the same breath. When a good brownie gets crisp, it means it's probably been sitting out for a few weeks, and thus is nigh inedible, unless it's like midnight and you just want a sweet snack but there's nothing else in the house and you're frankly a little desperate NO THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED TO ME WHY DO YOU ASK.

So finding out that our boy Basil has been tweaking away in his Bavarian Bakery to concoct something he calls "Brownie Crisps" does not fill my heart with gladness. Quite the opposite; I become possessed by a deep, primal dread, surely akin to that felt by Doktor Baron Von Frankenstein's dearest fiance as she first peered into his laboratory to discover the dessicated remains of the half-living creature her lover had constructed.

That dread is largely well-deserved. 

Call them "Brownie Crisps," call them "Chocolate Crunchies," call them "Discs Approximating a Flavor Commonly Found In The Cocoa Plant's Byproducts," and it doesn't matter. These are cookies, nothing more and nothing less. Calling them "crisps" does, I suppose, alleviate the need for said cookies to exhibit anything approximating moistness; these are the kind of dry that will make you cough a little like you just inhaled sand. A beverage isn't just recommended; it's required. There should be a beverage warning on the bag.

Speaking of the bag, it trumpets the presence of pecans, but they do not significantly improve or reduce the eating experience. It also announces itself as a "BIG 3 oz. Bag!" but I woulda been fine with like 1 oz, 2 oz of these things, tops.

Basil's Brownie Crisps have a sort of flat, inadequate chocolate flavor, without the sweet aftertaste of something like a Hershey bar. For this reason, you get almost none of the appealing effects of eating chocolate, such as the glorious rush of pleasure that overcomes your brain and cures whatever ails ya. You do, however, get all of the damaging impact to your health, including more than 400 calories and a whopping 1.5 grams of trans fat. That's right; where other snackmakers are proudly trumpeting the lack of trans fat in their products, Basil's bucking the trend. Fuck you, human bodies; these snacks are gonna give you trans fat, and an acrid sour tongue, and if you got a problem with it, take it up with Basil. 

Basil, by the way, joins an ever-growing pantheon of imaginary (?) personas responsible for the manufacturing and distribution of snacks. Little Debbie, Mrs. Freshley, Basil and his Bavarian Bakery...and as you'll see in the coming days, there are more. (Oh yes, there are.) Unlike the aforementioned Lady Freshley, who may very well be a fiftysomething sweetheart of a woman cranking out buddy bars in the comfort of her kitchen, Basil's got a bit of a corporate behemoth at his back, the Biscomerica Corporation in Rialto, CA. "WE ARE HOME TO SOME OF THE MOST POPULAR BRANDED COOKIES," their website trumpets, and that may very well be true. 

I hope they don't include Brownie Crisps in that pronouncement, though, because they suck ass.

 

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Matt Reviews the Snack Machine: Mrs. Freshley's Buddy Bars

Right now--even as I type this, even as you read it--there are people who wake each day and go to work for Mrs. Freshley.

These people collaborate on an assortment of delicious snacks, "synonymous with freshness, quality, and great taste."

Among these snacks are the Buddy Bars. 

(Aside: I'm pretty sure a kid on the playground tried to tell me about Mrs. Freshley's Buddy Bars in fifth grade. There were significant inaccuracies in his account.)

What we're talking about is essentially a variant on Little Debbie's Nutty Bars, thin layers of wafer alternated with peanut butter, then wrapped in chocolate. The success of such a snack is largely dependent, in this reporter's humble opinion, on the thickness and quality of the chocolate casing. Otherwise, you're getting a thin veneer of hope over dry, slightly salty despair. 

I was satisfied with the chocolate cover on these Buddy Bars. Not overwhelmed with pleasure, or obscenely disappointed. Simply satisfied. 

Each package of Mrs. Freshley's Buddy Bars contains three of the lil' buddies, although if they really were my BUDDY Bars, I might hesitate to devour them so lustily. I don't do that to buddies. These taste better to my mouth as a cold treat, so maybe next time I'll pop them in the freezer in the break room for ten minutes before I eat them.

Aw, who'm I kidding? I will tear open the package and inhale these fucking things, because it will be 3:30 p.m. on a Tuesday and I will be craving goddamned chocolate for christ's sake. 

Matt Reviews the Snack Machine is an ongoing project to provide critical analysis of the varying salty and sweet snack items available in the third-floor vending machine of Matt's office complex. You are invited to join him on a culinary tour of cheap, highly processed, briefly satisfying consumables. Suggestions and comments are welcome.

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Matt Eats Bad: First in a Series

Tuesday, June 8

8:30 p.m.

I leave to go to the store. Our Toyota Rav4 won't start. 

However, the brave little Kia I take to work every day does start, so I pick up a few things, including a pint of Ben & Jerry's Stephen Colbert's Americone Dream, which I eat while half-watching television. On my computer. 

I don't have cable. 

Anymore.

 

Wednesday, June 9

7 a.m.

Hey, here's a shocker: The car still won't start! I have breakfast, a bowl of Chex, half a banana, and coffee. My best meal of the day, health-wise; I still pour a teaspoon of sugar on the cereal. You know, for flava.

 

11 a.m.

Through a series of contusions far too uninteresting and complicated to divulge, I am at the Toyota dealership, and they are going to examine my car. 

I am peckish, so I visit the David Maus Cafe and purchase a pack of those little chocolate donuts, the ones that taste like they're covered in a thin layer of wax.

 

12:30 p.m.

Still at the dealer. Cell phone's almost dead, but I'm getting good wifi.

I return to the David Maus Cafe, where the broken fridge means there's no sandwiches for lunch. There is, however, pizza that's been bathed in those radioactive warming bulbs for hours. 

I order two slices and a Diet Coke (ha!); feeling frisky, I throw in a Kit-Kat bar. Why not? LIVE A LITTLE!

 

2 p.m.

The car is finally done; bad battery. I head home.

 

2:45 p.m.

My thoughtful wife, not realizing I'd already eaten because my cell phone died, brings home a Whopper value meal from Burger King for a late lunch. 

I eat the Whopper as some kind of decadent late-afternoon snack. 

 

8:30 p.m.

I'm finally hungry again, so off to the store I go, where I order a gigantic ham and swiss sub with lettuce and tomato, the only vegetables I've eaten all day, unless you count tomato sauce or the byproducts of the cocoa plant. No ice cream tonight. I have amazing self-control, as you can see.

 

9:30 p.m.

Stomach sated at last, I fall asleep on the couch. 

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