I just wrote a post on nostalgia and its affect on your palate a few weeks ago and am trying to find out how I’m going to write this without sounding like a hypocrite. In summation, I postulated that because of the pleasurable thoughts you had associated with foods from your childhood, they are most likely remembered as better than they truly are, and therefore, it’s probably shite. SHITE! It’s true; I’ve tested the theory. From my perspective, Better Than Bakery’s Cinnamon Log (heretofore known as “The French Log,” because that’s what my Aunt Crystal called it) is strong with pleasurable childhood memories.
Pretty much every holiday (and only the holidays) featured a French Log. You already know that some of those holidays were more pleasant than others, but you can’t underestimate that correlation. The French Log is frozen, comes in a box, is made without preservatives, and is made by Debbie somewhere along Route 91 in Northern Connecticut. It’s got a fairly limited distribution area, and we never had it in Maine, but whenever I’m in Longmeadow, Massachusetts (home of the Blount extended family), I gotta have my log.
On the website, one of the blurbs is, “If my husband does not get up soon, I will eat the whole thing by myself.” If you tried that with the French Log, that’s going to be 2,140 calories and 300% of your daily requirement for fat. If there were no restrictions on sharing the Log, I would ALWAYS eat the whole thing (and then promptly take a nap). It is addictive. I easily ate three-quarters of the one pictured (that would be 1,535 calories and 225% of my daily fat requirement) while my roommates and a friend from Toronto I had over had the other quarter loaf. For as far back as I can remember, the only sitting I recall eating less than half the French Log was my first. I was so ravenous for Log that my Aunt Crystal started buying two logs for the family when we came into town.
I fiend for The Log. I’m a Log Junkie. I get high on Log. Your Log, your Log, your log … is my Drug? Bob Saget asked me if I’d ever sucked dick for Log. No, Bob; I haven’t. Yet.
This is the best frozen anything that I’ve ever had. I would not fuck with you on this, my readers. It is. If you’re ever in a town where they sell these things, buy them shits!
So what do they taste like? I don’t know how to describe it, really. Unicorn kisses? Angel vagina? Ecstasy sautÃ©ed in truffle oil, sprinkled with Pixie dust? Your taste buds will literally ejaculate when you put this in your mouth. Literally. Maybe I mean that your salivary glands will secrete an enzyme to help you break down the food better and turn it into energy for the rest of the body, but it sounds much more fun talking about your mouth jizzing – in your mouth.
I mean, come on. Look at this beautiful shit. There’s enough butter in one of these loaves to kill Dick Cheney. I hope my liberal readership doesn’t get any ideas on this one. I do not advocate the forwarding of these loaves to Dick Cheney. I really don’t care so much about what Dick Cheney does anymore, but if you think about it, a buttery, cinnnamony, sugary, almondy death wouldn’t be such a bad way to go. If anyone out there with a heart condition is considering suicide, may I suggest two or three of these delicious French Logs?
Oh, come on. I’m KIDDING! Kidding! God. I love you. There is hope! You know I need the traffic.
By the way, Debbie; if you send me the rest of your bread offerings, I will host a Log tasting party with as many of the NYC food blog elite I can round up, and I personally assure you, I’ll do another post, as long as you remember to include another Cinnamon Log in that shipment – I need to show these guys what I’m talking about. I don’t mind being an advocate for your company, and if you’re looking for a Social Media Strategist or a NYC distributor, I’m your man.