Operation: Deep Fried Reese's

Reese’s cups. Alone, they are more than enough. Their sweet, fluffy center with the perfect amount of crunch, filling your nasal cavity with the taste of artificial peanut butter that somehow tastes fresher than the actual thing. Their solid chocolate shell that provides the sufficient amount of protection for the peanut butter and satisfaction for its devourer when they take the first bite, feeling that dull crunch ushering their taste buds into a world of sugary goodness. If all that wasn’t enough of a draw, my favorite color was always orange as a kid. Again, Reese’s cups alone, are more than enough. After all, they made them into a cereal. But deep fried Reese’s cups? Well, that is a life-altering progression, and that is where this story begins.

It was 90 degrees out, our stomachs were empty and our legs ached with pre-emptive cramps. But, we were halfway through our quest to make it on every ride at Kennywood amusement park, isolated deep in the hills of rural Pennsylvania. We had just gotten off the Phantom’s Revenge, the latest addition to the high budget, low brow property. With descents of over 200 feet at nearly 80 miles per hour, it had given my twelve-year-old heard the adrenaline pump it craved at a place like this. Our next task was The Exterminator, the ride that boasted the highest attraction attendance before the Phantom usurped its throne. In order to compete with the new coaster, The Exterminator updated its track, and it now traveled backwards as well as forwards. Not a major difference, I’ll admit, but to us kids it was something we absolutely had to experience.

We walked like three inconsiderate bikers, three-abreast through the asphalt pathways of the park. Taking in the sights of unfortunate sixth graders not yet old enough to be here without a parent, strollers drifting around potholes and the high school freshman whose first ingress into the workforce was selling junk food to passersby. One of the lanky, acne riddled sixteen-year-olds nearly bumped into me as I made up one of the wings of our attack formation, the red and green cotton candy bags suspended around his waist making him look like a character from Mario Kart. “What the freak!” I exclaimed in disgust, before seeking validation from my friends that he had cut me off and not the other way around.

We soldiered on, my friend Lewis checking the paper map of the park to adjust our heading. We were close. We just had to take the hill around the log ride and drop down the other side to The Exterminator, where we would join the ranks of the hazmat suit-donning characters fighting off a horde of radioactive rats while the four-person cart spun us around in the dark.

We stopped at the nearest bench and conferred. The sun was on its way down, and we had to meet Lewis’s mom at the park entrance no later than 6:30 (normally I’d take this as a suggestion rather than a hard deadline, but Lewis’s mom had left us before to prove a point before returning five minutes later). Child abuse or not, we were never late after that. As we looked at the map, we discovered a short cut we could take through the carnival section, passing through the food tents and spilling us out behind the ride. Much shorter distance, but much busier and far more crowded. Not only that, but Lewis had been complaining about his hunger for the last hour, and I didn’t want to hear his answer if I gave him an ultimatum between the food tents and the ride. I grabbed Lewis by the shoulders, looked him square in the eye like a Sergeant preparing a young soldier for Normandy, and made the objective crystal clear: “We will not stop for food. If you lose us, we will not come for you. We are doing this ride.” Lewis protested, but when our other friend, Steve, sided with me, Lewis had no choice. We promised him we would ask his mom to stop at Wendy’s before the long ride home and we would buy him a frosty.

We changed course, and made a beeline for the carnival tents. We serpentined with the tactical precision of a Navy SEAL element closing in on the objective, my peripherals filled with the flashes of red and yellow stripes of the food tents, catching fragments of conversations as we sped by the other park goers. Things were going according to plan; Lewis was even moving faster than we were! That is, until that fateful half-second when a scent invaded my left nostril. My pace slowed ever so slightly, as I craned my head over my left shoulder like an owl tracking its prey. It smelled sweeter than anything I had ever experienced. Not overpowering, but rich enough to be distinguished above the other scents of kettle corn and hot dogs. It was as if this scent wanted to be discovered by me.

Without thinking I broke off from the pack, Lewis and Steve so laser-focused on the objective they hadn’t noticed me peel off. I did a methodical 360 to pick up the scent trail again. Once I found it, I moved towards it, almost gliding like Bugs Bunny in the episode where he smells the cherry pie in the window. As the smell grew stronger I began scanning tents: Hot Dogs, Cotton Candy, Kettle Corn, Pizza, Corn Dog, Churro, Elephant Ears. All tantalizing treats, but not what I was tracking. What could it be? I checked back the way I came and realized I was all alone, I had become the deserter (literally).

Just as I was about to concede and hurry back to the original route, I saw it. Nestled in that red and white checkered wax paper that lined the cardboard boat the child carried. It’s golden glow perfectly contrasting the snow white powdered sugar that was piled on its head, the fresh bite revealing a perfectly melted-but-not-destroyed Reese’s cup inside as it steamed flirtatiously. Was that a Reese’s cup that had been deep fried? That was the scent! I had to have it. Like a seasoned detective, I walked the way that kid had come, retracing his steps with meticulous care. Finally, tucked behind a Dippin’ Dots cart and a hot dog stand, I saw the sign. Hanging proudly above a small red and yellow tent was a sign that read “Deep Fried Reese’s Cups! $1.99.”

My hand shot into my pocket faster than a Texas Ranger drawing his sidearm for a duel. I felt the waxy paper of a dollar in my fingertips. I gave it a quick rub between my thumb and index finger, and it magically materialized into two. Thank the Lord! I had two dollars left. I sprinted to the tent, dollars raised high above my head like a New Yorker trying to hail a cab. I made it to the counter, where a slightly less acne-riddled teen unenthusiastically drawled “What do you want?” Out of breath, I pointed at the sign above and put the money in his hand faster than a bachelorette at a Chippendale’s show.

Understanding my non-verbal conversation, he laughed, took the money and opened up the glass door of the warmer which held my prize. He awarded me with my own cardboard boat on the counter in front of me and I expertly inspected it, checking for any flaws. There were none. It was perfect. Not caring about my one cent of change, I retreated off the asphalt path, behind an out-of-the-way park bench like a squirrel with his peanut and bit into the revolutionary treat.

It was everything I had hoped, salty, sweet, crunchy, smooth, chewy, rich with hints of buttermilk from the batter. I was the happiest kid in the park that day. As I slowly made my way back to the path I continued to savor each bite, walking dramatically slower each time I rose the bronze pillows of peanut butter and chocolate to my lips. If my life was a television show, like Truman Burbank’s, this would be the shot where the camera dramatically circled around me while I danced in slow motion and gazed into the soul of my deep fried Reese’s cups before going in for the kiss. My moment of bliss was soon shattered, however, as the high pitched pre-pubescent voice of Lewis scolded me. “Dude! What are you doing! You missed the ride!” I didn’t care, and as I continued to eat my gifts from above, Steve checked his Nokia flip phone. “Shiz! It’s 6:15. We gotta get to the front before Lewis’s mom leaves us again.”

I wiped the cement made of powdered sugar and melted chocolate from my mouth, tossed my cardboard boat into the trash as I yelled “Kobe!” and as we once again assumed our attack formation, we set out to achieve our next objective: Get to the Toyota Sienna piloted by Lewis’s mom before we miss our exfil.