When one has lived for over thirty years, one knows life is a meaningless black void, a tale not told by an idiot, but a tale told by no one at all, and not even a tale, which might imply some sort of logical unfolding of events, which life certainly is not. How does one protect one's self from such emptiness? Mallomars cookies are a good place to start. I've discussed these cookies in these chronicles before, and I've also discussed the premium version which was put forth last year by Bouchon Bakery. Classic Mallomars in the yellow box are great; Bouchon Mallomars are transcendent. So it was to my great disappointment that it was revealed to me this past weekend that Bouchon has discontinued their Mollomars treats. The Bouchon representative said the treats were too labor and time-intensive. Resigned to this fact, I ordered a Pot de Creme, a dense chocolatey pudding topped with whipped cream. A real Pot de Bastard. I am changing my name to Pot de Bastard and traveling the country for the best Pot de Cremes. I will do this until my time on this planet is over, at which time I'll stop.
