I had it on good authority that, at least in Alberta, the McDonalds there had McDonaldland cookies. Now I had been under the understanding that McDonald’s no longer sold McDonaldland cookies and had stopped looking for them years ago. I was even prepared to write a letter to McDonald’s to ask them why these cookies had been discontinued.

But here, here is bliss. I was wrong. Set with incontrovertible proof that McDonaldland cookies were available in Alberta, while preparing a trip perhaps, I sent my Fetcher out to McDonald’s to find them. I was cautiously hopeful. I didn’t want to get too excited. I spent the whole day trying not to think about it. When he came home after work, he knocked on my door. He tried to look disappointed but he wears his heart on his face. And from behind his back proffered a bag.

I smiled and rocked back and forth on my heels. Inside the bag were 3 aluminum bags. I didn’t recognize the bags. But on the outside of the bags they promised the Original McDonaldland cookies. I invited my Fetcher in. I continued to worry that the cookies would look different. I continued to worry that they would taste different. We all know the story. An adult tries to recapture something from his youth. The smell of Christmas. The taste of Christmas. The hope and excitement and thrill of Christmas Eve. And it never comes. It never matches. Nostalgia recolors. Nostalgia alters.

I didn’t like that they were in an aluminum bag. I missed the cartoon boxes. I missed opening the box then removing the cellophane pack of cookie treats. It was part of the experience. It occurred to me that maybe I wouldn’t harass the memory. Maybe I wouldn’t open the bag. Maybe I wouldn’t tempt the buttery glaze of nostalgia. But of course that didn’t last. And so, with a blend of glee and trepidation, I opened the bag.

I saw the familiar shapes. The cluster of fries. The Hamburglar. That flying chicken creature. By the way, who is this flying chicken lady? What was her name? What did she sell? Chicken McNuggets? That’s a bit like Miss Piggy selling pepperoni sticks, or pepperoni pizza (which, much to my horror, she does). Ronald’s unaltered head. The familiar shape of Grimace.

I shook with happiness. They were the right shapes. Exactly cut from the cookie cutter in my head. I think I frightened my Fetcher a little. He knows I love these things but he couldn’t have known how much. Because I had company, I bothered myself to put the cookies on a plate. I offered the plate to my neighbor, “No, you go ahead.” Perhaps he knew that I was just being social. How horribly wrong it would have been for him to have tasted the cookie first.

I got me a Grimace. I put it on my tongue. Eyes a-sparkle. So far so good. I crunched it. It stuck in my teeth, yum. And that moment, just before you swallow it, your taste buds go ablaze. Antique memories blinking, reawakened, revived, snapping. Ah, the McDonaldland cookie bite. I don’t know what it is. High fructose corn syrup? Folic acid? It is the taste of bliss.

After I enjoyed five or six, my Fetcher allowed himself to take one, then two. I thanked him heartily before he left me to my enriched flour ecstacy. I have since, of course, finished all three bags. On this rare occasion, it came, just as it was. And I couldn’t be happier.

Another big pleasure: I actually avoid looking at many photoblogs. When I did I found myself being too influenced in a way I didn’t particularly like. And then I found myself being too competitive in a way I didn’t particularly like. But there remains a handful of photoblogs I look at religiously. And one, of course, is no traces. No traces is celebrating it’s 200th post right now. Go take a look.

SS