Sweeter Than A Barrel of Monkeys

Monkey bread. That’s what it’s called. I was pretty sure it was something tasty, but the visions in my head made me gasp.

Loaves with long tails and large, circular ears danced before me. I could see the oven rocking back and forth on its sturdy metal legs just before exploding in a cloud of smoke, pouring out a small army of spastic monkeys.


Maybe the monkeys would come later and dance upon the table, tearing at the bread with their human-like hands, screeching in high monkey voices, creating a cacophony of terror in our kitchen.


Just a sweet delicacy of premade dough, (the kind that comes in a cardboard cylinder that makes that satisfying pop when you open it), sugar, cinnamon, and butter. Bake it for a while and out comes a confection more delightful than a trip to Ikea. After it cooled, (not too much, though), and was flipped onto a plate the feast began. The color and texture was reminiscent of monkeys, but I’m quite sure monkeys do not taste quite so divine. It was an immediate rush of sugar and gooey goodness. Not what you’d call healthy fair, but who cares!

We tore into it with glee, much like, well, monkeys. The over-powering fragrance of buttery cinnamon and sugar was like a call from the primordial glutton within us all. It could not be stopped. Only the sudden feeling of sugar shock knocked us out of the frenzy we had succumbed to in mere moments.

It was over as fast as it started. The bread half gone, and me, crouched upon the table, shrieking inanely at my jungle pack. The kids scurried off to let the sugar run its course. My wife helped me down from the table and gave me a glass of milk.

“It will help,” she said as she placed what was left of her creation back on the counter and went about tidying up as though all my civilized humanity had not just fled the scene like a fugitive. The dog shook her head as if to say, “I don’t even know you.”

I don’t even know myself.

Yet, I have no regrets. Once you have tasted sweet nectar such as this nothing else really matters. I can’t apologize for listening to the animal within. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to wash the crust of sugar off my cheeks and have a nice glass of water.

Am I supposed to shake like this?

“Don’t worry, it’ll wear off!”


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