Google tells me Oreos have been around since March 6, 1912. I haven't been around quite that long, but I do remember them as a kid. In fact, I feel the need to finally confess that as a child, I may have single handedly contributed to the rodent population of Little Italy in Toronto. Let me explain.
My parents and I lived in a second story flat on Clinton Street when I was about seven or eight years old. By flat, I mean a small bedroom for three, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom shared with two other families. Wow!
We were not very well off since my parents had just moved to the city from a gold mining town wayyyy north of Superior. At first, they took whatever jobs they could get. This improved somewhat when mom got a position at the Imperial Bank of Canada, and dad began as an audio technician at CBC.
From time to time they would purchase cookies...not really essential since mom often made magnificent European tortes. Cookies were somewhat different though. Mom only made the special varieties of German ones, pfeffernuss, almond crescents, linzer, and oblaten, at Christmas, hence the purchases.
I remember on one occasion we had a package of Oreos. I'm not sure why. Perhaps they were on sale at Mr. Morris' Grocery store on the corner. There was nothing appealing looking about them. After all, they weren't Peak Freans shortbread, chocolate chip, or graham wafers (the other occasional purchases). In fact, Oreos had a disgusting dark brown exterior, slightly bitter, that stuck tellingly between your teeth. The only redeeming feature was the lining...white "stuff" of some creamy consistency, probably pure sugar.
One day, when I was home alone after school, I searched for a snack. There wasn't much around except canned goods, the blender my parents had purchased to make skim milk from powder, and a packet of Oreos. After considering the depth of trouble I'd be in, I went for it, grabbed a handful and tried to eat one. My contorted mouth after tasting the cookie helped me decide on a new plan. I had to think fast. Where would I hide the evidence? I headed for the kitchen window which faced the back yard, opened it somewhat, and began an epic activity which has haunted me for some sixty years.
As I pulled apart each cookie, I savoured the edible sandwiched centres, lick by lick, considered the outer wafers, then tossed them from the second story, watching them spiral to the ground below.
Surprisingly, nothing ever became of my misdeed...not from my parents, and not from our landlords. Either the cookie shells disappeared by means of wildlife, or they were so well disguised in the dirt that they became compost. To me they had certainly tasted like something akin to soil.
Why did I think to write this now? Well, I haven't checked Snopes, to see whether this is a real thing or not. I have decided that I don't want to know. Someone posted it on Facebook thus bringing back memories of the great cookie caper.
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