Hey, clowns!
Davida and I are back from Portland, Oregon, and I missed you all very much. While we were out there we ate a ton of good food, did a lot of walking, and most importantly, we won three plastic dinosaurs out of a claw machine. One cannot ask for much more than that from a vacation.
Our pantry is kind of bare right now, so we don’t have much fresh stuff to eat at the moment. I was hungry and looking for newsletter inspiration, so I started rifling through the stash of snacks we have on top of the fridge, which is where every cool household keeps their goodies.
I thought it’d be easy, but the lightning strike I sought wasn’t happening. So I shouted to Davida, “What do you suppose I can do with some Chex Mix?” as I stared at the gigantor bag I purchased for half off a month ago.
“Chex. Don’t they use Chex to make puppy chow?” Davida asked? I nodded. “Puppy chow,” she murmured. “Puppy chow. Wait. What if you made puppy chow with puppy chow?”
Holy shit. If there was a camera filming us right that second, I would have whipped my head towards it while the cameraman zoomed in on my face. Puppy chow, but made out of puppy chow. Puppy chow puppy chow.
Puppy chow, also known as muddy buddies, is a relatively well-known treat here in the Midwest. It consists of Chex cereal tossed in a chocolate and peanut butter mixture, which is then rolled in powdered sugar. I’ve only recently learned that not everyone knows what puppy chow is; it’s one of those things I thought every American knew about by default, but I guess it’s typically a Midwestern thing.
If you’ve never had it, the snack is almost always a big hit at parties and potlucks, and it’s easy to eat an embarrassing amount of something named after dog food. But eating dog food is my specialty, and nothing will stop me from eating more. Best food newsletter ever.
The recipe for puppy chow is so simple that it makes me wonder why I’ve never made it for Davida and I.
I decided to rely on one from The Pioneer Woman, aka, Ree Drummond. I mostly chose it because her name is Ree, and I am known to all of you as Dannis Ree. With our forces combined, we would become a monster named Dannis Ree Drummond. It’s like Voltron, but way stupider.
As for the puppy chow, all you need is chocolate chips, peanut butter, powdered sugar, and butter, along with a neutral cereal of some sort, like Chex. I guess dry dog food is sort of like cereal, when you think about it. Meat cereal.
What’s particularly great about puppy chow (the snack, I can’t believe I have to specify this, but I did that to myself) is that all the cooking happens in the microwave.
You don’t have to turn on the stove, break out your flamethrower, or set your house on fire to make this Midwestern treat.
On that note, I think we could all use more Betty Crocker-ish recipes like this one in our lives.
Life is already hell, you know? Dannis Ree Drummond is simply here to make it even worse with one-step microwave recipes.
As for the cooking, you just zap the bowl of chocolate chips, peanut butter, and regular butter in the microwave in 30 second increments, stirring as you go along, until everything is melted together smoothly.
You’ll end up with a silky and glossy sauce, almost like a ganache. After this, you have two choices: You can slather this stuff all over your face and body and run out into the street, shouting complete nonsense, or you can mix it with dog food. Those are the only two options.
It’s funny thinking that this product is literally called “puppy chow.”
Most of the other products on the shelf had fancier names, like “ProActive Health Smart Puppy Large Breed Dry Dog Food,” or “Pro Plan Puppy Shredded Blend Chicken and Rice Formula with Probiotics Dry Dog Food,” but no, this one just says fuck it and straight up calls it “Puppy Chow.” That’s a power move.
I poured a luscious ribbon of chocolate and peanut butter over the kibble and let out an involuntary grunt.
Then I tossed it all together with the same rubber spatula I use to cook human food with.
I tossed the mix into a Ziploc bag and poured powdered sugar in it, as the recipe says to do.
Then something interesting happened. I hadn’t really detected the scent of the dry dog kibble until I’d coated it completely in chocolate. The heat from the chocolate and peanut butter mixture coaxed the aroma out of the dog food, and when I tossed it in the plastic bag with a bunch of powdered sugar, I caught a whiff of some pretty conflicting stuff.
At first I enjoyed the scent of what basically amounted to a melted Reese’s peanut butter cup, but then the daunting odor of sweaty meat and corn chips swelled up behind it.
I mushed the Ziploc bag around in my hands a little to coat the chocolate-covered dog food in powdered sugar. The starch in the powdered sugar would ensure that the kibble chunks would mostly not stick together, plus who doesn’t love a fuckton of powdered sugar all over their face and clothing, anyway?
I poured the puppy chow onto a plate for the gang to inspect.
I got a long bout of silence from all three of them, and I started crying.
Davida moseyed into the kitchen and saw me gearing up to eat one of the finished pieces of puppy chow puppy chow.
She looked down in my palm, inspected the puppy chow and picked a piece up.
“Wait,” I said to her, “You’re going to eat one?” I was sure she was going to skip this culinary excursion, but I guess I was wrong.
“I better stand in front of the garbage can just in case,” she said, positioning herself by the trash bin, watching me closely.
I grimaced, popped a piece in my mouth, and started chewing, as Davida inspected my every move. At first the piece of puppy chow puppy chow tasted fine, since all I could detect was chocolate and peanut butter, but then the stale musty flavor of dog food came rushing out, and the grainy bits began to stick between my teeth. I am pretty sure I invented a brand new facial expression when that happened.
Like a champ, Davida popped hers in her mouth, began crunching away, and immediately started flapping her arms. She stomped on the foot pedal for the garbage can lid and the dog food launched straight out of her mouth, along with a bunch of curse words. I’m guessing she loved it.
We can add this little gem to things I’ve done for the newsletter that belong squarely under the “weird shit to talk about at parties” category, or “items to never mention in front of my parents.”
I better go buy some actual groceries now, huh?
Okay, clowns, you know the drill: If you enjoyed today’s newsletter (or hated it), don’t forget to share it with as many people as you can, via social media, IRC chat rooms, mental telepathy, or secret Slack channels where you complain about your job.
And I’d ask you to take a moment and please consider upgrading your subscription while you’re at it.
I can always use your support, and these days with publications shuttering left and right, I’m starting to feel lonelier than I imagined I would. Hopefully you find value in me causing culinary mayhem every week (or at least getting you to shake your head in mild concern), and I hope that’s worth something to you.
Signing up for a full subscription will net you access to the full archives, which is now nearly FOUR WHOLE YEARS of food-related shenanigans, plus you’ll get exclusive newsletter drops that free subscribers don’t get. Pretty cool, if you ask me.
Okay, everyone, time to wrap up for today. As always, I love you all, and I’ll hop into your inboxes again as soon as I can.
“A whiff of some pretty conflicting stuff” is the greatest blurb anyone will ever write for your book, Dannis.
This is making me lol 😆