UTZ Dark Russet Chips

When I was a little kid, potato chips were always synonymous with Utz. I can’t remember if the first time I encountered the blushing little girl with the red dimples was in the a half-ounce bags from the school snack line or in the ”Family” size bags of Sour Cream and Onion chips I’d stuff down my face during Saturday playdates, but from an early age I can distinctly remember knowing no other chip than Utz. Maybe it’s because we didn’t have chips as snacks in the house, but there was just something special about eating Utz chips. Tied to both those afternoon’s playing Command and Conquer: Red Alert 2 at my friend Mike’s house and those youth baseball games where an 0-for-5 performance with two errors was still good enough to get you a juice box and a bag of chips, the crunch and earthy flavor of an Utz chip anchors me to memories of past friendships and youthful innocence.

I’ve grown up, and my taste for Utz chips has done the same. When I was a little kid the only chips I would eat were the plain chips and the Sour Cream and Onion Chips (O.K, maybe some Bar-B-Q and Crab chips to mix it up) but when it came to the more ‘adult’ flavors and styles, I wasn’t curious. These days I’ll still spring for the simple pleasure of a one-ounce bag of the Plain Utz chips in the red bag, but more often than not you can find me with a bag of Kettle Classics. Sweet Potato and Maui BBQ are staples, but my favorite are the Dark Russet.

If I ever have a restaurant — say, a wood-fired American grill with Adirondack decor and patrons wearing Tommy Bahama shirts — these are the kinds of chips that I’d serve them on the side of their burgers. They’re thick and crunchy, but they’re also earthy-sweet in flavor, taking full advantage of a peanut oil fry to maximize the intrinsic flavor of the russet potato. The sugars in the potato caramelize much quicker than regular potatoes, giving them a deep hue and french fry-like quality that leaves a sweet but deep finish in your mouth as you chew them. Punctuated my tiny bubbles from the small-batch frying, each chips is a new experience, a different object to contemplate in the slow crunch of a late afternoon lunch. They’re the kind of chips you put ketchup on — plain, simple, scientifically proven Heinz ketchup — and eat as part of a meal before a 4 pm nap.

Or, for old times sake, while you’re playing Command and Conquer on that old computer you had stashed in the basement.

Utz Kettle Classics: Dark Russet

• Price: $2.50 (on sale at Weis)
• Ranking: 9/10
• Chances I’d Buy Again: 100%

Cereal Throwdown: Nesquik vs. Cocoa Puffs

When it comes to cereal featuring maple flavor, I’m more than happy to acquiesce to the claims of Canadian maple syrup. I’ve written extensively on the condition inspired by French Toast Crunch, and would ascribe any superiority it has over American counterparts (not including Waffle Crisp) to Quebec’s claim as the world’s leading producer of the deeply sweet syrup.  

Cocoa is a different story. Especially when it comes to cocoa featuring a cartoon character. For this I must differ to a bird of a different feather. A Cuckoo, to be more precise.

Little did I know there is a Canadian animal with the effrontery to challenge Sonny’s claim as the world’s greatest cocoa-inspired cereal. With balling skills equal to that of a Harlem globetrotter, the bunny (and no, he is not a rabbit) representing Canada’s Nesquik cereal would at first appear a charlatan of the U.S. of A’s iconic Cocoa Puffs. But is that really the case? Or have we American been lead into a fallacious conclusion about the nature of Cocoa Puffs, succumbing to the kind of insipid and dull taste that would hardly associate with going “cuckoo?”

I set out to glean the true master of cocoa taste, and to match Canada’s best with America’s enduring in a border showdown not seen since the fiercely contested 2010 Olympic Hockey Final.

To do this, I enlisted the help of some family and friends in setting up a blind taste test for me to try both cereals dry, and to pick out which one I liked best. I then attempted to identify which was which, and later I tasted both in milk (non-blind taste test.) The results after the jump… 

It’s Not About Me, or You…

I don’t know how to start today’s reflection any other way than a simple, straightforward affirmation; I was a straight-up asshole to deal with Friday night. Be forwarned and grab the cheeseboard, because the following will include a whole lotta whine.

It was 6:30 in the evening and I was starving. I had just finished a six-hour shift at Rita’s, and after a few goof-ups and a steady stream of customers, my smile just wanted to take a nap. Above all, I just didn’t want to be at the freaking “potluck” I found myself at. The very use of the term “potluck” should tell you something about the event.

Old people. Lots of them.

I have nothing against old people, but I’m 23. Needless to say, spending a Friday evening with couples in their 50s and 60s while eating mediocre crab soup and store-bought rolls isn’t something I want to do. The fact alone underscores an issue I’ve been dealing with over the past few weeks, adding more fuel to my fire for why I don’t want to go on my church mission trip to Biloxi, Mississippi in a week.

(This is the point where if you’re apt to tune out after reading ‘mission trip,’ I beg you to stay. Don’t think of us this as a collection of Bible-carrying, clean-cut young men with name tags. Mostly, it’s just middle-aged folks awkwardly wielding hammers in a completely secular effort to rebuild an area still dealing with the devastation of Hurricane Katrina.)

I have a gazillion reasons to not want to go on this trip. For the sake of continuing my asshole style of analysis, let me list them. One, I’m paying to go out of my own pocket. Let me say that again; I’m paying to volunteer. Like, what the hell? Two, I’m forgoing a week on the job, and losing more money. Three, I’m giving away the lifeblood of my internet connection for a week, and possibly handing over my weekly standbys of Modern Family and The Office in favor of whatever nonsense other people want to watch. And on top of it all, I’ll be in the complete company of strangers, of which only a few are younger than 40, with the few that are qualifying squarely in the annoying teenager bracket.

This was not what I wanted to sign up for when I first heard about the trip in January. Bored, unemployed, and hoping to connect with someone – anyone with a pulse in my new location – I figured a noble task like rebuilding a hurricane-striken community surely called my name. This is the kind of endeavour all down-on-their luck young people should embrace, I had told myself, flaunting my own desire to do some act of charity and national aid like the kind of over-the-top perfectionist we all knew (and wanted to punch) in high school.

Well, a couple hundred dollars and a new job later — not to mention meeting the other people I’ll be spending a week with — and I’m getting cold feet. Scratch that. I’m frostbitten, and walking into that potluck the other night, taking a look at the people around me, I couldn’t help but want to start the inevitable “Do you knows…”

Do you know what I’m giving up for this? Heck, is it really even needed? Do these people even really need our help? Heck, are we even really helping them? Wouldn’t you be happier dragging your own kid into this? I mean, it’s not like Cancun isn’t going to miss them for one spring break…

If that wasn’t enough, there was a guy at the potluck (gah, I sincerely detest that word!) who insisted at playing Devil’s advocate. I don’t know what his story was exactly, but as the husband of one of the volunteers and someone who clearly had something against the Catholic church, if not religion in general, he thought it would be funny to bring Hawaiian pizza to the dinner and openly talk about how doing volunteer labor work wasn’t worth it unless he was getting paid. And so, for the third time in probably as many minutes, the voice in side my head was screaming. What. The. Hell.

I’d love to say the next thirty minutes and the dinner to follow changed my perspective. It’d be nice to think just then some fascinating moment of grace hit me as a gorgeous, 23-year old girl showed up late, revealing one member of the volunteer group I might want to  bond with. But none of that happened. In fact, I left early without so much as saying goodbye. What I left with was much more important.

As I was walking out I had a great talk with our parish priest. The kind of wise young man who you’d never know was a priest had he not donned the white-collar and black shirt, Fr. Matt told it to me straight. Volunteering isn’t about me. And thinking I’m entitled to some perks because I’m working for free is the last thing someone helping out Hurricane victims should be thinking about.

It’s ironic, you know. When we’re young, we’re persuaded to “get involved” with promises of getting something in return. In high school our counselors told us volunteering would look good on our transcript, and in college, we were told it would look good on our resume to help some non-profit out. We’d be viewed as “complete” people, they told us, and when that wasn’t enough to get us off our asses, we’d be hopelessly swayed by some moral platitude about how we’d gain some appreciation or insight into ourselves for our efforts. A “good feeling,” as it were, or a perspective into the lives of others which causes us to grow in temperament or spirit. And all of it, of course, reinforced by one too many TV sitcoms.

Nowhere though, do they talk about volunteering as absolutely sucking. As being a burden to us that doesn’t yield any “wow” inspiration of enduring good feeling or come-around karma. I guess they don’t tell us it’s possible — although, given how things work out, perhaps  unlikely — because they don’t want us backing out and getting cold feet. But maybe they should, because volunteering – and the fruits that come out of it – aren’t made for us, and shouldn’t be for us.

Father Matt helped me to see this. He explained to me that it doesn’t matter if all I get out of this trip is a headache and a sunburn, the point of me going down to help rebuild the area is to do some little part in making someone else’s life better. And chances are, he told me, their life is really the one that could use some help.

Clearly, my own hypocrisy was on full display here. Usually the first to admonish others for what I perceive as selfish actions, I’m just as guilty as adopting a me-first, transaction style of dealing with people and situations that highlights a spirit that is fundamentally anti-Christian. And to think I’ve been expecting God to grant me some wish of my choosing for this style of thinking!

In a week I’ll be going away for six days. In that time, I may or may not experience some revelation of service and feel-good byproduct of stepping outside my comfort zone. But if I don’t, that’s O.K. too. At the end of the week some one’s life might be a little easier or better off, and that’s what truly counts. My prayer, and my hope, on a day like today is that people around our country and our world, regardless of faith or lack thereof, find a way to embrace service for those in true need for what it is. Not always a benefit for us or out causes and political beliefs, it is charity and service always addresses a fundamental need for our world, and will never be a waste of our time and energy.

Serious Cereal: Neapolitan Cheerios

From reader Sharon:

the deliciousness that is PB Cheerios over Neapolitan ice cream.  I wanted to compare vanilla, strawberry (Omg PB&J!) and chocolate and the mix of all three…  It was a successful pairing both the cereal with the individual ice cream flavors and all together once it got melty

Got serious cereal love to share? Go ahead and hit me up at AdamWCF — at — gmail.com.  

The Triple D Taco Joint in the Gas Station

There are very few television shows I consistently watch on a regular basis. For quite a while during high school I had a few I’d watch each week, but as I got more involved in other things later in college – and as college football watching came to dominate almost every single night of my life – the list gradually withered down to Lost and The Office. Eventually Lost ended and I lost track of what was going on with The Office (I never did get the whole Mountain TV time zone thing down pat), and my television watching withered down to whatever happened to be on ESPN or Food Network.

If you’ve ever watched Food Network you know Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives is on practically every day, and often time in marathon form. I know there are a million reasons why people claim to hate Guy Fieri (really, how can you hate a dude you don’t even know?) but I like the concept of the show, and like seeing the restaurants featured. That said, I’ve checked out two of these supposed All-American hidden gems, and I found neither Chaps Pit Beef (in Baltimore) nor The Burger Bar (In Ogden, Utah) to be earth-shattering. Good food, yea. Worth going out of my way for with the way gas runs these days? No way.

A couple weeks ago a place about thirty minutes from where I’m living now was featured on the show. It wasn’t my first time hearing about R&R Taqueria, which has built quite a reputation in central Maryland over the last few years thanks to a popular local food blog, HowChow. And while Taco’s really aren’t my thing and previous adventures have taught me that Mr. HowChow and I share very different tastes, I made sure to tune in when Guy pulled into R&R for a visit.

This is a place which clearly qualifies for the show. I don’t want to speak ill of the area, but it has seen better days. Elkridge has a tough, blue collar reputation in the realm of Maryland stereotypes, and given how my elementary school carpool used to hold our collective breaths while passing a nearby cemetery (not because of the smell of dead people, but because of the industrial volume of the area), it didn’t surprise me the area hasn’t appreciated in the span of 15 years. But working-class neighborhood alone doesn’t earmark a place as a dive. Being a six-stool room smaller than my mom’s closet does. Oh yea, as does being located inside of a gas station.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that I’m far from a Latino food expert. That I passed all my Spanish classes in college is due more to the fact that I took the same broadcast courses the football players always decided to take (hint, hint) and not to my overwhelming interest in broadening my cultural horizons. Still, any place offering a menu that includes cuts like tongue, tripe, and head cheese intrigues me enough to try. When I first went in I asked for the tripe, but the girl at the counter (who spoke pretty solid English) said they were out. Bummed, I nevertheless remembered the behemoth of a preparation the crew went through to prepare the Tacos de Barbacoa, and decided any place willing to hack up a whole lamb in the back of a gas station deserved my hard earned $2.19.

I can only remember having Lamb one other time in my life. It was at Clyde’s in Columbia, and I thought the puny little chops sucked. I can’t remember why they sucked though, other than the $18 I shelled out for the dish seemed a lot for something with so little meat. So as I sat waiting for my taco, it dawned on me that I really couldn’t remember what lamb tasted like. Funny, right? There are certain and extremely weird animal tastes I could pick out in outer space (chicken liver, bison testicles) but I had no idea what lamb tasted like.

According to the show the yellow corn tortillas are made-in house. To tell you the truth I couldn’t have distinguished mine from any store-bought tortilla, except that it was thicker and clearly had a slight, gamey taste of lard that toasted the underside. The meat itself was shredded, with a few disappointing hunks of gelatinous fat included. I like melted intramuscular fat as much as the next guy, but after tasting the still semisolid hunks of fat I decided to remove them. The meat itself was what I can only describe as gamey. Distinguishable from beef in that it lacked the sweet undertones, it was grassy with strong hints of garlic and vinegar. I definitely appreciated the taste, and the cilantro and onions made a nice tagalong, but overall I wasn’t blown away. Maybe it’s the gringo in me, but there was too much bitterness and acidity for my taste, and not enough sweetness or salt.

Kind of bummed about my taco, I went back to order a few others for my mom, who was scheduled to get off a plane in an hour or two (the only reason I had to be in the area to start with.) It was during that time that I got to talking to a stream of people coming in, many of whom were taking pictures next to a set-up that featured an autograph from Guy. I spoke to a local teacher who asked me about my Rita’s shirt, and after a while, she started to try to explain what Rita’s is to the women making tacos behind the counter. A complete novice in Spanish, I suddenly found myself reaching back into my hat of linguistic tricks and busting out phrases like “helado sin o con leche,” and “manana, el helado es gratis” (it was free ice day the next day.) That’s when the guy who was on the show came out, and I told him about the Rita’s free ice day. He said he had been to Rita’s before, and I went on to tell him that I had seen the show and wanted to stop by. He seemed more than appreciative and took the time to ring my second order up before shaking my hand.

I took a few more minutes to talk to some of the other customers before leaving with my mom’s tacos (a carne asada and two carnitas — she said they were good but ‘salty.’) It’s at that point that I realized the whole point of going to a Triple D featured place is not a lost cause, even when the food might not shatter your expectations. It really shouldn’t have come as such a revelation to me. I mean, I’ve long known that our perception of food is as much about taste and sensation as it is about experience, and in the adventure and community of going out of your way to find a place “as seen on TV,” you’re taping into that X-factor of what makes spending money out on food worth it. 

Would I recommend R&R? Yea, I would. The lamb taco wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great, but then again, it’s not something I normally eat. I think for anyone who enjoys Mexican food it will more than hit the spot, and even if you don’t, the adventure of trying it out and meeting those who’ve done the same is worth it.

Chocolate Mini Wheats Little Bites

A trip down the cereal aisle can provide an interesting lesson in semantics. On shelves proclaiming flavors like “honey nut” and “berry,” it goes without saying (‘saying,’ haha, get it?) that some disagreement is born from the labels of Chocolate cereal.

When you’re a little kid, everything chocolate tastes the same. Call it “the brown one” syndrome of developing and still maturing tastebuds, but there’s a certain and inherant lack of understanding for the complexities of the dark eats. What were left with, as cereal eaters, is an incomplete view of chocolate, born from a fundamental misunderstanding of cereals which don’t even promise “chocolate.”

Think about it. Cocoa Puffs. Cocoa Pebbles. Chocolatey Cap’n Crunch. Even freaking Special K Chocolatey Delight. Whether a simple sprinkling of cocoa processed with alkali or, in the case of Special K’s rendition, the addition of “fake” chocolate-flavored chips, most cereals fail to actually contain cocoa butter and solids in their ingredients. The result? Something that may have hints of chocolate sweetness or taste, but never something with true chocolate.

Chocolate Mini Wheats Little Bites is different.It starts with the title, but it doesn’t end there. With an ingredient list which shows semisweet chocolate as the third ingredient, it is, to my knowledge, the only mass produced cereal to include cocoa butter and solids in its ingredients. The addition of cocoa proceed with alkali only adds to the depth of chocolate flavor here, while a sturdy base of whole grain wheat provides structural integrity.

I’ve long-held Chocolate Mini Wheats Little Bites as one of my Top 5 cereals, but the recent rush for new products has kept me from purchasing it for a few months. That all ended in Target last week, when my usual conundrum over how to blow my ice cream tips took a turn for the tried and true.

As a snack, you can’t ask for much more. The pieces are the perfect size for munching on, and their steady crunch is studded with cocoa flavor and a sweet contrast of thick vanilla icing. Keeping the icing to one side is genius, as a play between the deeper notes to cocoa on one side and the sweeter notes of vanilla and semisweet chocolate permeate the other, finally coming together when the hammering crunch of your teeth comes down. But the real kicker is the small pieces of real chocolate chips tucked into the nuggets, which provide a burst of chocolate richness that tastes more of candy than cereal.

The easy portability and lack of obnoxious sugar coating usually earmarks these as a snacking cereal for me, but I’ll occasionally eat them in milk. It’s really not a bad option, because the little bites have great absorption ability, sucking in the the bovine’s nectar into their little wheat-filled capillaries like my vacuum sucks in the stink bug invasion going on in my family’s house. The vanilla glaze becomes exceptionally yummy as it slowly dissolves, while the little chocolate chips fall away from the cocoa layer and melt into the milk.

Clearly, this was a cereal made for a man who likes to use words. But it’s also a cereal that’ll make health freaks happy and sugarholics content. Balancing a solid dose of protein (5 grams) and fiber (6 grams) for 12 grams of sugar, it’s as complete as a breakfast as you’re going to find on this side of the hippie natural food aisle.

Any other Chocolate Mini Wheats Little Bites fans out there? Also, what’s your favorite flavor of Mini Wheats?

(Calories: 190, Total Fat: 2 grams, Saturated Fat: 1 grams, Fiber: 6 grams, Sugar: 12 grams, Protein: 5 grams)

•  Price: $2.66 (on sale at Target)
• Ranking: 10/10
• Chances I’d Buy Again: 100%

Goodbye to Narcissism

I was reading a Bruce Feldman article recently about the perils of social media for athletes when it hit me: the internet has made us all narcissistic.

Think about it. Whether it’s twitter or facebook or leaving comments on blogs, those of us who’ve grown of age in the online world tend to have a certain degree of insecurity that constantly leads us back to investing too much time in what goes on online. Like the Brad Paisley song, we fancy ourselves as “so much cooler online,” to the point where we’re willing to reduce ourselves to high school-like gossip, behind the back email forwarding, and even hateful attacks — all just in the name of boosting ourselves or “our world” to a point of self-promotion which allows us to feel good. We’re way too into ourselves. In what we think. In where we are. In what we eat. In what we observe and how we choose to ”enlighten” others. Don’t believe me? Just ask yourself; when was the last time you checked back on a webpage just to see if another anonymous user agreed with you or didn’t on a comment you made?

I see it in myself and I see it all the time in bloggers who – and let’s not pretend we haven’t all done it at some point – act with all the arrogance of some holier-than-you attitude because of a sharp wit or sniping ability in an online debate. Truth be told, by writing this you could make a case I’m doing exactly what I’m criticizing, although, for the sake of trying to make an eventual point, I hope that won’t preclude you from hearing me out.

I bring all this up because since 2012 began I’ve done two thing which, after six years of blogging, were very difficult for me to do. I left my safety nets as a writer, and in calling it quits on a very popular food blog as well as the one sports media website I currently still wrote for, I took away constants in my life which had, for far too long, dictated what I was doing in real life.

I also took away the two things people most identified me with, and which I identified myself with. That, you could say, is stepping off some kind of a deep end.

I hope, in whatever journey you’re on in life, that you’re starting to get my drift. Writing for the two websites and doing all that was asked of me — as well as things which were not asked of me by others, but which I asked, and demanded, of myself — had ceased being fun. It wasn’t making me happy, and once more, it was too often affecting how I dealt with people when I tried to live in the real world. Allowing the narcissistic ”me” I was able to isolate online take over, I began to demand certain things of others, arguing with people for no other reason than I had become so use to arguing with people online.

But in stepping off the deep-end and stepping away from my computer over the last few weeks, I’ve learned and experienced several things. One, I’ve learned that people — whether they think differently or believe differently than you — are generally receptive to anyone with a smile on their face. Two, I’ve learned I like keeping a smile on my face, and that in stepping away from the dirt-flinging of the online world, keeping those smiles on my face is easier. Three, I’ve learned that being a part-time ice cream man and volunteer at my church and local library makes me happy. And if it makes you happy, it can’t be so bad, right?

(Ok, obviously not 100% right. Actions have consequences — like twinkies, which make me happy, but would eventually kill me if I indulged my guilty pleasure of take and bake twinkie pizzas for every meal. But as for activities that are largely beneficial to others in society, well, that’s far from twinkie hedonism.)

I don’t know what your background is, but I know that mine has left me with a feeling that my identity has always been tied to what goes on online. It’s where my first jobs came from, and it’s where my first pats on the backs came from. But it’s also where I’ve forgotten to see the good in the world and in others, and become too consumed with the image I’ve been portraying. I know it’ll take time, but saying goodbye to that kind of lifestyle — in any of our cases — might just bring us to the kind of happiness that really breeds identity.

I’ll still be blogging. Here, and elsewhere. My interest in discussing whatever new cereal or Canadian candy I’ve found isn’t going to diminish, nor will my impulse to find and share the stories in the world I experience suddenly disappear.

But I’ll also be living in the real world. Giving up the internet for a week while I do some Habitat for Hamanity work in Louisiana, helping trace the genealogy of visitors to our Historical Society, and yes, serving ice cream and being “the old guy” to the high school students working with me at Rita’s. What can I say, it makes me happy to see other people happy, and makes me smile to see other people smile.

And that is worth more than any “likes” I get on a status updates, or comments praising the reporting I’ve done in some dumb blog post.

The Best Chicken Sandwiches. Ever.

Thursday mornings at Chick-Fil-A shouldn’t look any different from Thursday mornings at any other fast food restaurant. Cars buzz in and out of the parking lot on an unseasonably warm day. People shuffle in an out the doors. A mom — sore eyed from a late shift and already back in her nursing gown for another long day — is telling her daughter to eat her fruit before she gets to her chicken nuggets. For breakfast.

That’s thing number one I love about Chick-Fil-A. You can essentially, and are in fact encouraged, to eat chicken nuggets for breakfast. And not those frozen chicken nuggets with spotty whole grain breading that your mom tried to stuff down your face during busy weeknights as a kid. We’re talking your peanut oily sweet, succulent morsels of all white meat that greeted you on cold days during fast food runs with your free coupons in college.

That’s the number two thing I love about Chick-Fil-A. The memories. In November  2010 — my senior year of college — they opened a CFA in our town. In Utah. In November. I took three straight days off to camp out in the First 100 event to win 52 meal coupons, and even though I was forced to stay warm by huddling with 18-year old dudes in a fart-infested tent, the experience was worth it. The coupons? Those were great too, but as anyone who has ever been to a First 100 will tell you, it’s the people, and the atmosphere, which really leave you feeling like a winner.

That’s the third thing I love about Chick-Fil-A. The people. I’ve always been amazed at the diversity of the stores I’ve walked into. Every one who goes in seems to love it, and unlike chains which target certain demographics, CFA checks provocative ads or minority targeted campaigns at the door. Walking into a Chick-Fil-A, you see all kinds of people there. And all kinds of people working there. Cows, I guess, don’t discriminate. They even give out free Chick-n-Minis on Thursdays during the winter to anyone who steps in, awkward looking young adults included.

There’s a lot of misconceptions out there about Chick-Fil-A. A lot of slinging around of phrases that, aside from being born from partisan soundbites and a sixth-grade level of civic understanding, just aren’t accurate. But while we may argue about semantics and labels of this and that, I challenge any person to walk into a Chick-Fil-A and not feel welcomed. To feel stared down at, like an alien crossing the silent, divided line of, “people like me just don’t go there.” And while you’re at it, I challenge you to have chicken nuggets. For breakfast.

I’ve been eating at CFA’s for a lot of years, but this was my first time having their Chick-n-Minis. How two-bite sandwich morsels can make such a transcending breakfast is beyond my scope of linguistic ability, but let me try to break it down. It starts with the roll. Half biscuit, half potato roll, it has firm outside with a lickable honey butter coating that pairs perfectly with the airy, warm, and yeasty interior. It’s savory and sweet, rich and light, walking the balance between the always competing ying and yang of breakfast preferences. All this before you even get to the chicken.

If you’ve never had Chick-Fil-A’s chicken it’s almost fruitless to try to explain. The breading is crisp but not crunchy, the taste succulent, nutty, and sweet. It’s as if each fiber of protein sings to your salivary glands, conducting a symphony of flavor that is so simple, it’s genius. The size is small, but the effect is substantial. Your first bite reveals the depth of flavor, and from here on out you’re commanded to nibble away, reminded that sometimes the best things in life are the little things we often glance over.

Just like how the best chicken sandwiches are mini. And the best chicken sandwich restaurants are like a home away from home, for everyone.

March Madness Giveaway

I was never that big of a college basketball fan as a kid. A football fan for most of my life, I just didn’t have the patience to sit through a full college basketball game, and besides, what was the point in following along during the best time of the year for college basketball — the opening round of the NCAA tournament — when I had to be in school.

I always thought having games of any kind on during school hours should be illegal, but by the time I got to high school they started to allow us to watch a little bit of the first round tournament games on the grainy old televisions in the cafeteria after the 2:30 bell. It was in those days that I really started to get into the thrill of watching an underdog hit a last second shot to stun the favorite, or experience the clutching anticipation of a free throw which could make or break a season.

In college I was an NCAA tournament junkie – what, with my Utah State Aggies making it to the Big Dance during each of my two years in Logan. And while I’ve graduated this year and the Aggies failed to make the tournament, you can bet I’ll still be checking in on the first round games. Nope, no bracket for me, but thanks to my boss (a former University of Maryland quarterback) we’ll have the action on at work. So do me a favor and skip ice cream for at least one day. I’d hate to be too busy.

Unfortunately I know some hard-working Americans will be. But not to worry. Our friends at Wheat Thins have a hook up to get us all through. They want to help you give your boss the slip and embrace your American DUTY to slack off at the office on Thursday and Friday, and to do it, they’ve put together a go-to fan survival kit for ultimate tournament enjoyment during the worktime “rush.”

So here’s the deal. We’re giving away one of these kits (chalked full of cool stuff like a headset, mini basketball set, and of course, wheat thins) to a lucky winner. All you have to do is a leave a comment on this post by Midnight on Thursday (Friday) with your pick to win the whole shabang. Extra points for those who pick my sister’s school (Loyola) and a double entry for those who follow @AdamNettina on twitter and retweet the follow: Free stuff to survive the Big Dance @AdamNettina http://wp.me/p1NDm0-dG

Think you’ve got it? I’ll pick a winner Friday, and we’ll get you your survival pack just in time the get ready for the Sweet 16 next week!

Coffee and Candy

When I was a little kid and had the extreme pleasure of Trick-or-Treating, my favorite candy to get was always Kit-Kats. No, not these green-tea wasabi Kit Kats I hear you can get in Asia, and not the white chocolate or dark chocolate ones they seem to pack in “fun size” wrappers nowadays. I’m talking your straight up, four-stick milk chocolate and crispy wafer Kit-Kat. There was just something about the crunch that reminded me of the Voortman cookies I loved so much, and just enough balanced decadence with the hardened chocolate on the outside as to not overwhelm the pleasure of the snacking novelty.

I hardly eat candy bars anymore. At some point I more or less banished them as “junk food,” although given my love of cereal, chips, and useless carbs, it’s a label I obviously use in an incredibly loose sense. But there’s just something that deprives the joy from candy bars as you get older, as if that childhood need for a wrapper to open gives way to a sense of having been there, done that. granola bars, protein bars — those are the new unwrappables. Not the standard Kit-Kat we’d take to school in our lunch boxes for weeks after Halloween when we were kids.

Every once and a while something new will come about though. No, not from these shores, but from a strange, exotic land. One where chocolate and crispy wafer alone don’t suffice, and children and adults everywhere are met with the comforting and sweet taste of coffee between each crunchy bite.

Coffee Crisp, you have rekindled my love for the candy bar, and thanks to you and my friend Melissa, I may never open a granola bar again.

There’s something about a King Size candy bar which makes you slow down when eating it. It’s not like those sustenance-designed granola bars we scarf down in between classes or jobs. Probing the 50-gram Coffee Crisp bar like the alien creation of cocoa mass and soya lecithin it is, you soon develop your own style for eating it. Perhaps you start around the edges — licking the hardened milk chocolate coating before chipping the shards off with your front teeth, or maybe you work meticulously to extricate the thin sheet of coffee cream from each crispy layer, allowing the edges to fall, like raindrops, into your steaming cup of joe besides you.

Dipped in coffee, that  smooth, milky chocolate coating takes on a smokey-sweet earthiness that recalls the processed beans to an earlier state. Now you move to dunk the whole bar into the dark roast blend, imagining yourself as some Yukon-based Park Ranger doing the Canadian version of American cops’ favorite morning pastime.  As you bring the bar back for a taste, you’re seized by the aroma, textures and tastes. A synthesis of the three tablespoons of sugar and cream coffee drinker and the all black, Ethiopian brew consumer takes place in this moment, as a spectrum of initial sweetness and smooth cream gives way to the flaky, aerated crisp.

I have heard some people choose to take their coffee black so they can have their donut and eat it too. I don’t know about a donut, but I’ll gladly take Coffee Crisp any day of the week.

• Price: N/A
• Ranking: 9/10
• Chances I’d Eat Again: 95%