I'm pretty sure I've mentioned these a time or two – or three, or five – before. Originally, they were just delicious, crunchy, powdery nuggets of sharp white cheddar awesomeness, gazing out of their crowded grocery store display shelf with the smug awareness that they, being all-natural, were better than the rest of their snack-food brethren. They would not find themselves in a cart full of Mountain Dew and Twinkies. Britney Spears had never exited a gas station bathroom, barefoot, eating them. But now, I'm seriously considering seeking help for my Natural Cheetos addiction. If the familiar orange and brown bag, with its cute little sunset-and-farmlands etching graphics (it's supposed to make us feel better – it's homey, it's comfortable, it's all-nautral, dammit!) finds its way into the Viviani kitchen, the contents are not long for this world.
Sometimes I buy the Cheetos when I run into the grocery store for completely non-food-related items: toilet paper, toothpaste, Prilosec, face wash. For some reason, my non-edible purchases always justify it. I'm barely out of the parking lot before I'm opening the bag, and five minutes into my commute home, there is telltale Cheeto residue on my fingers. Then I stash them in the glove compartment, in hopes that no one will ever find them. I'm just waiting to be pulled over, cheesy fingers and all, looking nervously at my loaded glovebox.
Officer: “Ma'am, is there anything in your car that we should know about?”
Me: “No.” Wiping cheese powder from hands. “There is most definitely NOT a half-eaten bag of Natural Cheetos in the glovebox.”
I'm not quite sure what is in those little puffs of cheese that makes them so “natural”, but my guess is something opiate-related.
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