A tale of resurrection!

As much as it galls me to say so, I owe this discovery to my brother and a phone call he made to me.

At first, I thought he might be pulling a prank on his older, better-looking (and more modest) brother. This wouldn't exactly be a stretch to think he'd do something like this. But, as I reflected, he knows there are certain things that we don't joke about, and this was one of them.

So after taking care of a few errands, I went to recon the location he provided me. I walked in, trying to look nonchalant, as if I weren't on a mission of dire importance.

I peered down aisle after aisle until I found the one that could provide happiness or torment. I thought for a second that I'd been too late; that I'd missed my chance, but then I saw them. In the distance I heard trumpets and the Hallelujah chorus.

There, before my myopic eyes: Hostess Pudding Pies.


The very same pies that have prompted me to write letter after letter to Hostess, pleading and indirectly threatening (Twinkie the Kid can now walk the streets safely) for the return of my once-loved fattening pastry delight.

I grabbed all four on the shelf and made my way to the cashier, where I paid just under $6 for something I hadn't eaten in nearly two decades.

Yes, I'm that old and pathetic.

I enlisted my wife to document the occasion. Now keep in mind, in a perfect world, they would have been the vanilla pudding pies, but as evidenced by gas prices, the continued fame of Paris Hilton, and my hairline, we don't live in a perfect world.

I cautiously inspected the first Pudding Pie.


All right, so far, so good. But did they taste OK?


Huzzah! All is chocolatey and so sweet I almost needed insulin.

I have yet to see if Hostess has brought back the vanilla pie as well; I'm going to be writing them tomorrow. But this just goes to show you, kids: whine about something long enough, and you'll get it just so you'll shut up.

Nacho cheese Cheetos, anyone?