Pretzel logic

Some things never change: The moon rules the tides. The Detroit Lions disappoint their fans. Cars with Grateful Dead bumper stickers get searched by the cops. I love pretzels.



When I use the word "love" here, I do not take it lightly. This is not some meaningless fling that I'll vehemently deny when the tabloids come a-callin' - no, this is long-term commitment, the real deal, a solid relationship that would surely result in marriage if only the closed-minded voters in this country would stop its perpetual illegality. I've been enamored of pretzels since I had teeth. There's no telling where I got my first fix, but once I had a taste of that crunchy, salty stick, it was on.

Some of my earliest, fondest memories are of being taken to the movies by Squirl when I was a preschooler. She claims it was a way for her to see Disney cartoons without ridicule from her peers, but I suspect that she was actually a nice big sister and just doesn't want to admit it, for fear that I'll smell weakness and hit her up for cash. We'd go to the Grand theater, one o' those ornate, old-style, pre-multiplex movie houses with fancy scrollwork, chandeliers, and one screen. Of course, concession stand prices were just as comparatively outrageous then as they are now, so in order to save a wad of cash, Mom would send snacks along in Squirl's purse. I don't know what Squirl had for herself, but I always had the same thing: a bottle of Jell-O water and a bag of stick pretzels. Every time. Jungle Book without my pretzels? Ha! Are you mad? You might as well ask for Tarzan without his bag of Cheetas. Or...something.

When I got to be a little older, I was - and I'm saying this politely - a persnickety eater. By that, I mean I was a snot who wouldn't eat anything that anyone made for me. There were a few years there where I more or less survived on a diet of lemon drops and pretzels. Luckily, I still had ample reserves of baby fat, so starvation was not a likely scenario. Even my taste in pretzels had gained a persnicketiness by then, and I would only eat one kind: Mister Salty Veri-Thin Pretzel Sticks.



My first boyfriend. I dreamed of being Mrs. Salty.


My poor parents, desperate to see me eat something, anything, would buy me several boxes of these fuckers at a time. It was not at all uncommon for me to go through four boxes a week of Mister Salty's finest. The space under my bed was known as The Pretzel Box Graveyard, because when I'd eat the last of the pretzels in my room (as I often did), instead of walking the box downstairs and throwing it away like a normal person, I'd just shove the empties under my bed. (I may still be a slob, but at least I don't do that anymore!) I had a ritual for the way I would eat the pretzels - the little sticks had to be bitten into eight pieces of somewhat similar size, and swallowed without any further chewing (eating the salt off first was optional). Once I hit my growth spurt, where I suddenly got obscenely tall and all the baby fat disappeared, it was often suggested to me that I was actually turning into one of the "veri-thin" pretzels. Luckily, no one ever bit me into eight equal-sized pieces.

I don't know exactly when I made the change, but at some point, I began to prefer the curlicue-shaped pretzels (I have no idea what that shape is actually called) instead of the tiny stick pretzels. Today, that is still my preference. Mister Salty pretzels became increasingly harder to find, so I've bounced from brand to brand over the years. For a while, my pretzel of choice was the Made-Rite/Better-Made brand, but since I've moved to Illinois, that is not an option. However, I've found that Jay's Pretzel Thins fit the bill, and I happily eat those on a daily basis. If the store only has the stick pretzels or the little round ones, or curlicue pretzels of the non-Jay's variety, I will snort with indignation and leave the premises pretzel-less. I am no less persnickety now than I was when I was ten years old. I'm eating Jay's Pretzel Thins as I write this - don't try to feign shock; it doesn't look natural on you. There is always a bag of these on my desk, next to the computer monitor (often next to a bag of Reese's Pieces).

Just because I've changed pretzel shape and brand, though, does not mean that I've given up my sense of ritual. On the contrary, I have an even more elaborate scheme for how these pretzels should be eaten in order to appreciate their subtle beauty.

Behold my weird obsession:



If this doesn't convince you that I need some kind of psychotherapy...then you and I should eat pretzels together sometime!