i wrote this post 3 years ago.

Sweet, artificial strawberry flavored jelly, covered in a dry pastry, topped with sparkling sprinkles on the brittle pink frosting.

Biting into the oxymoron of a snack, both soft and crunchy, is not a pleasurable choice but rather an indulgence of the memories that come from the years and years of having that exciting blue box in my pantry.

From the days when I would shrug my shoulders as my dad would tell me I could only have one in the foil pack of two
to the days I would give one of the tarts to my friend as we went on our little after school excursions to who knows where,
only one thing remains unchanged.

The blue box.
lined with 6 foil packs of perfectly rectangular strawberry… and only strawberry pop tarts.

My dad insisted that the strawberry pop tarts were the best, even after I thoroughly proved that the cookies and cream ones were better,
he snapped in with his famous you’re wrong.
Whichever may be better, strawberry pop tarts have been a constant. The packaging even still looks the same.
I have a confession to make though. I don’t really like them at all.
I never did.

I remember the days my dad would come barging in the door after a long day at work shouting,
“Tadaima! I have a surprise for you”. I would come rushing down the stairs, eyes open wide, ready to rustle the beige Publix bag, determined to find out what this surprise was.
Once I saw the little blue box peeking out, a slight wave of disappointment would wash over me, but not too much, because I had a surprise.

My childhood was full of monotony. Breakfast was raisin bran. Clothing was always a red polo and khaki shorts to school. Hair was half up, half down. Lunch was an American cheese and ham sandwich with Tots applesauce and minute maid apple juice.

Very little changed, but those days my dad would bring home a surprise brought me to a little place of joy. they were special. Strawberry pop tarts were my colorful little escape from my grey monotony.

As I got older, the surprise pop tarts became less and less exciting and they would remain on the shelf for days and days until my dad would come home and eat them on his large lazy boy, way past dinner, attempting to unwrap the foil as quietly as possible so I wouldn’t find out.

It was always my dog who ate the pop tarts.

He never seemed to notice I wasn’t eating from the blue box, or maybe he just wanted them all for himself.

One may never know but he definitely had no idea the sprinkles no longer turned the corners of my mouth.

There was a night junior year where my best friend at the time and I decided we would escape the grey world and go on a little… adventure. We wandered around for hours and hours, finding new landmarks to pinpoint memories. The world had lifted our feet and allowed us to feel the breeze as the sun lowered beneath the ground.

Our stomachs rumbled, hangry for a small little snack. As we playfully ran down the snack isle of our nearest Publix, my friend looked at me and asked if I’ve ever had strawberry pop tarts. I had obviously told her the truth that I really didn’t like them. I proceeded to describe the dry texture and artificial taste, but she decided to get them anyways.

As we sat on a little bench outside the store, waiting for our moms to finally come pick us up, she had discovered that, unlike me, she loved the taste of strawberry pop tarts.

I smiled maliciously as if I had accomplished something and handed her the whole box.
As I bit into the frosting, as I attempted to fake a false sense of pleasure.
The pastry wasn’t nearly as bad as I remembered.
Don’t get me wrong.
Strawberry pop tarts will never be my first choice, but I liked them that night.
It was that day I began to realize the way you see the world is how you let yourself perceive it.
Finding gratitude in the smallest of things can distract your heart from the biggest of complications
and I guess that‘s what the surprise strawberry pop tarts were for me.

Every surprise pop tart was a moment of joy that the universe could never take back.