Junk

Once upon a time, in a barn far, far away, two small children longed for sugar. One child dug deep, deep into the cupboards and thought he'd hit pay dirt. In his euphoria he read "chocolate" on the label and took a big bite of the bar. Even if he had read the word "baker's" before it, he would not have known what it meant in time to stop him from a mouthful of horror. The second child climbed atop the fridge every day to get to her stash: a gigantic jar of quarter-sized chewable vitamin C. She grew healthy and tall -- after a brief period of portliness prior to excessive growth.

When you live 30 minutes from civilization and your parents are on a freak-'70s, nuts-and-twigs diet, you don't get a lot of normal childhood treats lying around. Apparently, in this phase of deprivation, even my parents became desperate.

If necessity is the mother of all inventions, my mother was the inventor of all things necessary. Rummaging around, she found the heretofore secret ingredients for Junk. Asking for measurements would be insulting. And futile, as there aren't any.

In this order melt together in small frying pan: butter, marshmallows, some form of chocolate (chips, powder, Nestle Quik in dire cases), peanut butter and a crunchy item (cereal, chow mein noodles). In true tradition, Junk must be eaten from the pan, on the couch, kitchen towel used to keep lap from burning. Junk must be eaten so hot that you burn your mouth on the first bite and can't really taste anything after that, with a glass of milk. Top tip: don't use metal or wood utensils as Junk sticks to them.

As you can guess, I just made some.

Let me know how it goes!