Sherbet Bombs

A flavoursome imploding in one's mouth, a bomb-shaped cylinder made of melted sugar and colour splitting in half to release its serving of white fizz which coats one's tongue and sizzles like carbonated water, dissolves, and retracts into one's oesophagus where it momentarily burns one's throat, but one feels no sense of pain because one receives pleasure from the flavour experienced.

Sherbet Bombs, possibly originating in Australia, are the best form of confectionary known to all hard-working students. The fizz somehow allows one to concentrate even more on the task at hand, in the same way that the fizz concentrates on burning one's inner mouth. They are the very epitome of the word 'sweet', for they are sweet in every way imaginable. One simply cannot ever dare to imagine thinking without having a sherbet bomb in their mouth, for thoughts in that event are uneventful and overly mellow. Overly mellow thoughts cannot contribute to tasks, thus they are redundant.

When one merely rattles a bag of Sherbet Bombs in the vicinity of others, all others prowl towards the owner of the packet, sneaking closer and closer until they are close enough to kindly ask for one, but only accept a minimum of at least four. The owner cannot refuse otherwise they may risk losing the entire bag of these delicious goods. They must then choose, lose around four per person or lose the entire bag? So they offer their confectionary bounty and enjoy the lucky last one.

You see, Sherbet Bombs are simply divine. They are perfectly shaped in that any holder of a tongue, no matter its width, can comfortably hold a Sherbet Bomb in it and accommodate it as it melts into a heavenly sugary syrup for the consumer to enjoy. It does not disturb the teeth of the consumer, either, it is as though it was engineered by a professional architect of confectionary, perhaps even Willy Wonka himself, so that it may be eaten flawlessly. 

Its wrapper, a simple white piece of plastic with minimal line decorations and the words SHERBET BOMB sprawled on it, in the colour of the flavour it represents. This is to avoid future consumers from picking the wrong flavour, which has never been noted to happen. The reproducers of Sherbet Bombs know how much worth goes into them to place a wrapper that does not match to the Sherbet Bomb. They simply will not stoop so low as to hide the true colour beneath, in fear of losing customers, though with that said, customers would never stop consuming Sherbet Bombs even on the off chance of finding a Sherbet Bomb wrapped in the wrong wrapping. It will, in the event of this, simply be marked off as an accidental mistake, and the consumer will nonetheless enjoy the flavour that they did not anticipate. After all, a Sherbet Bomb is a Sherbet Bomb, regardless of the colour and flavour. Plus, each flavour is equally as awesome.

If you reside in a country where you feel there is an absence of Sherbet Bombs, then I strongly urge you to move countries. If you do not wish to take that option, then you must find a company online that can deliver some to you. Pay whatever price needed, just know that every scent will be worth it, for you will never have had experienced such an experience as having a Sherbet Bomb in your mouth.

Pumpkin Soup

There is nothing better to come home to in the cold after a long day of overworking your already exhausted body than coming home to a nice, warm bowl of fresh pumpkin soup. Not the packet type that you find in your supermarket, but the kind made from scratch by your mother, in the very hearth of your home.

Pumpkin soup is the most delicious type of its kind. It is just divine, its creamy texture separates in your mouth, spreading all over each tastebud, blanketing them, and then gathers together in the back of your throat where it slides down your oesophagus like a lump of heaven, gliding through to your stomach where it rests like a tired toddler, calmly and sweetly. Best eaten with a deep spoon from a round bowl, it enhances life after each spoonful, no matter the situation of the person consuming it. It evens out all thoughts and places the consumer in a haze of serenity, whereby no troubles can ever be thought of, until the soup is finished.

I just came home to pumpkin soup in all its glory, having been cooked by my mother, a professional chef who is not professionally trained according to contemporary society, rather she has inherited ounces of tradition and culture from every unimaginable corner of life and has combined them into varied recipes, allowing the consumer to feel from different parts of the world, through their hunger. Despite having tutored a child for four consecutive hours, and having to come home to a crowded house, crowded with the loud sound of the football blaring on the television and having to hear a commentary louder than my breathing about semi-nude men chasing a piece of rubber on a field, and despite making a nice toast only to have it fall apart and get thrown away, I am now soothed because I am consuming my pumpkin soup.

I am nearing the end of it, though, and when I reach the end I know that all my anger from the instances listed above will crawl back into my mind to replace the warm gap that the thoughts of the pumpkin soup had left behind, and I will be infuriated again. Life is simply bettered with pumpkin soup, especially if you have mild anger issues. It simply dispels them. Looking down at every spoonful, I notice that it is so flavoursome that it looks as though it has pores, just like if it were a living, breathing, being thing. It fascinates me so much so I almost cry every time I have to part with the vision of it in order to consume that spoonful. I am always left only on the verge of tears though because soon enough I have another spoonful to admire.

Maybe I am too obsessive about this perfect concoction, but one thing is for certain, my mother knows how to cook foods that transport me to places I will never actually experience. This is why I chose tonight, too, to come home to this soup rather than bring home a brown paper bag filled with fast foods that have been sitting around in a machine all day, waiting for some radiation from fast powerful microwaves to roast them enough to look appealing for both their low price and their low-paying customers. I admit, okay, I am obsessive over my mother's food. I will challenge you, though, I challenge you to come over one day and consume some of my mother's food, even her pumpkin soup, and dare to tell me any different. 

That challenge is real, I am not writing it for the sake of concluding this essay. I mean it. Come and try her food. Chances are, you can fit through the door on your way in but you will never fit on your way out.