Cult of Jef

Some­times par­ents don’t want to let go of the idea of their chil­dren as kids. For exam­ple, even after my older sis­ter, Vicki, and I had moved away from home, my mother con­tin­ued to buy us marsh­mal­low Peeps® every Easter.

You know what I’m talk­ing about, right? Marsh­mal­low can­dies pro­duced in the shape of chicks and coated with yel­low sugar that appear every March to fill the Easter bas­kets of gen­tile chil­dren.  Peeps® are, actu­ally, made with marsh­mal­low, corn syrup, gelatin, and car­nauba wax, and sold in pack­ages of four.

When I was a child, I had no prob­lem ingest­ing fowl-shaped globs of sugar; as an adult, it’s a dif­fer­ent story.  Just see­ing a Peep® makes me cringe and crave a glass of water, milk, or cof­fee to drive the sickly sweet taste from my mouth.

I would gladly force myself to eat one Peep® per year for my mother and nostalgia’s sake; how­ever, Mom typ­i­cally bought my sis­ter and me one pack­age for each. It sounds harm­less enough, but try to eat all four Peeps® with­out becom­ing an instant diabetic.

One Easter morn­ing, the preacher reminded me that Jesus said, let’s share.  I attempted to give my remain­ing Peeps® away, but oth­ers responded in hor­ror, as if I offered them crys­tal meth, shak­ing their hands to ward off the evil and scur­ry­ing away, backwards.

I tried to be resource­ful and find prac­ti­cal uses for my Peeps®.  I dis­solved one in cof­fee, but it made the pot too sweet and I had to pour it out.  The peanut but­ter & Peep® sand­wich didn’t fare much bet­ter, and I won’t even tell you about how the chips & Peep® dip turned out.  Let me just say, salty & sweet don’t always “dance” together.

Vicki and I tried hint­ing to my mother that she didn’t need to buy us Peeps® any longer.

““I’m on a diet,” Vicki said.

““Just eat one a day,” Mom replied.

““Did you hear that Peeps® are made by Satanists?” I asked.

““No one’s per­fect,” Mom said.

I still remem­ber smil­ing to the point of paral­y­sis after my mother gave Vicki and me our pack­ages of Peeps® last Easter.

““What are you going to do with yours?” I asked out of the cor­ner of my mouth.

““I don’t know,” Vicki said.  “I thought about giv­ing them to some kids in the neigh­bor­hood, but I don’t think I can do that in good con­science.  Their par­ents might call DFCS.  What are you going to do with yours?”

““I sup­pose I could shel­lac them and use them as paperweights.”

““Tom and I are going to see Van Halen next week,” she said.  “Maybe I can use them as earplugs.”

““I con­sid­ered using one as a hood orna­ment, but I’m afraid the Peeps® will take the paint off my car.”

““I called the exter­mi­na­tor a few months ago to remove a dead rat I found in the garage.  Turns out, it was a Peep® that had been coated with dust.”

I sighed.  “We can’t keep this up.  We need to say some­thing to her.”

““Don’t look at me,” she said.  “I’m afraid of what she might do.”

““To her­self?”

““No, to me!”

““Okay, fine.  I’ll do it.”  I walked over to my mother and said, “Mom, Vicki and I don’t want you to buy us Peeps®, anymore.”

““What?  But you kids love Peeps®!” Mom exclaimed.

““We did–when we were kids, but we’re adults now,” I said.  “They’re just so sweet.”

““Yeah, they’re kind of sick­en­ing, aren’t they?”

““Well, yeah …”

““What am I going to do with all of these Peeps®, though?” My mother asked.

““What do you mean?”

Mom led me to the pantry where she had stashed pack­ages of Peeps® from floor to ceil­ing.  “What are you doing with all of these Peeps®?” I asked.

““H.E.B. had a sale on them in 1978 and I bought them in bulk to save,” she said.

““Wait a minute!” I said.  “Do you mean to tell me you’ve been giv­ing us Peeps® that are a quar­ter of a cen­tury old?”

Mom shrugged.   “What’s the prob­lem?  Peeps® never go bad.  You know, they say that after the nuclear holo­caust, only cock­roaches and Peep® left.”

I shud­dered at the thought, but took solace in the fact I’d never have to eat another Peep® again.

How do you feel about Peeps®?