For the Love of Hob Nobs

One December day in 1993, my significant other at the time-- a Brit-- brought me a can of cookies. I plopped one in my mouth. "Oh my, what are these?" "Hob Nobs", the Significant Other replied. I was an instant addict. When we broke up, I wrung my hands in despair at not having easy access to this British Wonder Cookie, always disappointed by American efforts to emulate the delicacy (a defining moment in my formation into a Liberal, realizing that the Continentals do it better). Ever since, I have dreamt lusty dreams about this awesome cookie, stalking anyone I know to soon be travelling to the Mother Country to bring back a can... or three. They never did. They knew my cookie problem, and refused to be enablers.

Twelve years later, I found myself in a London flat, raiding my friend's cabinet, refusing all other meals and food so that I could a can (or two) of Hob Nobs a day. About to board the airplane back to Martial Law, I spotted a can in the airport store. Sure, buying it almost caused me to miss my flight, but it was worth it.

My Fair Hob Nob (by Sir M. McMitchington)

chocolate top
oatmeal-like bottom
eating you i cannot stop
making all diet efforts flotsam

for weeks only one of you has been left
(it took all I could bear to wait)
staring at you has left my soul bereft
Indeed, i have been at Hell's gate

But, like that old lover it is time to say goodbye
(for sadly, you have added seven winter pounds to my waist)
So you I must eat without a sigh or a cry
Be gone, make haste!