Wonder Bread-Hostess Cakes

I was raised by twinkies. Not «on» twinkies, by twinkies. Like Charles in Charge, only with cream-​filled golden bricks of moist cake parents. They were in charge of my wrongs, and my rights, and everything I did was to please the gods of the snack cakes that they might share a little ambrosia loaf with me.
I yearned for their approval, showed off for their friends, and after school most days they would help me as I finished my homework.
The cupboard of Hostess goodies dominated my thoughts and they were my daddy and my mommy. I’ve grown up, moved out, and moved on. But every so often I come back to visit. I’m transformed into that whimpering boy who just wanted to spend more time with Ho-​Hos. This «thrift-​store-​but-​with-​food» is like any of our parents. It’s getting old, it ain’t what it used to be, but in the end it provides comfort and a gateway to simpler times.