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Sprinkles

I DON’T. LIKE. SPRINKLES

4.18.20

I don’t like sprinkles, okay? Have you ever sat down and really thought about what these little sugar cockroaches are made of? I’m not going to sit here and pretend I know EXACTLY what they’re made of, but if you’ve ever eaten sprinkles without a soft-serve mountain underneath you can comfortably admit they’re not good. Maybe you’re wondering, Hannah, have you eaten unaccompanied sprinkles? The short answer is yes. The honest answer is one handful. 

I wasn't exactly competing in baby beauty pageants as a child. I had a really aggressive sweet tooth. While my mom championed bringing organic food into the house before it was trendy, my dad was the czar of confection. Especially breakfast.

I was obsessed with what I will refer to as breakfast dessert (because that is what it is), and my dad fed right into it. I think he might have just been impressed with my enthusiasm and capacity for food as a small gal. Donuts? I’ll have five. Waffles? A Lego towers worth, if you please. Pancakes? Why don’t you whip up two batches, one for me and one for… later. Pastries, coffee cake, french toast. I could name more, but you get the point.

On the tail end of this unnecessarily long phase everything had worn out it’s welcome except those delectable, top heavy, baked goods. I ate them so much my parents called me muffin girl.

My very long and drawn out point is this. I know what a good dessert tastes like, and I need you to stop forcing sprinkles, or jimmies, or whatever you call thems down my throat. No, not even baked into cookies. No, I don’t like confetti cake.

Sprinkles are just the rolled up, dried pieces that couldn't quite make into the Betty Croker can of frosting. Sprinkles are the push up bra of whatever dessert they befall. It might look good at a glance, but when you grab a handful you realize it’s all an illusion.

I don’t. Like. Sprinkles: Work
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