Mallomar memories

Most of the Mallomars not sold in New York are sold in California and Florida, which is to say Los Angeles and Miami, which is to say places New Yorkers congregate after leaving New York, which is to say Jews, because Christians don't congregate. There must have been Mallomars around when I was little because I grew up in Los Angeles, and Mama, who with Papa had congregated, shopped at Gelson's, where lots of other New Yorkers shopped.

Scooter Pies were variations on the s'more theme as well. Scooter Pies were made by Burry's. They were not New York cookies. They were West Coast cookies, flyover state cookies, goy cookies. There was a goofy-looking giant kid on the box, and sometimes they threw in these dorky puppets that weren't really puppets, they were just thin plastic gloves with characters drawn on them. Scooter Pies were bigger, more like a palm-size hockey puck than the silver-dollar-size brown derby that is a Mallomar. They came individually wrapped, 12 to a box, as I recall it. They were perennial. Hot summer day? Let 'em melt. I loved Scooter Pies.

But not like Mallomars.

We had a few minutes before the movie, so I took my box of Mallomars -- the first box of Mallomars I ever bought with my own money -- back to the car for safekeeping. On the way I slit open the yellow cellophane to get at the white box and then to the brown drops of wonder inside. The packaging is the same as when I was little. Maybe it hasn't changed since Mallomars debuted in West Hoboken, N.J., in 1913. In this age of shrink-wrap and molded plastic, is any other cookie still presented so elegantly?

I took one out. As soon as I touched it it started to melt. I remember that, the slidy feeling on your fingers if you don't pop it into your mouth right away. But how can you just pop it into your mouth? Not whole. You have to savor it. A Mallomar, so small, is still a two-, even a three-bite cookie. The cookie looked a little smaller than I remembered, as all things from childhood do. I hesitated, worried that it would disappoint, that I hadn't remembered it right, or that, as with so many other things, including me, Mallomars had gone downhill over the years. I looked at the smooth, almost shiny top. I explained to the wife about Papa cookies. Somewhere, a dog barked. I took a bite.

Heaven.

Exactly as I'd remembered it. The perfect combination of crunchy graham cracker, poofy marshmallow, enrobing, enveloping chocolate. Sabbath dinner at Mama and Papa's, and then it was just Mama's. The holiday feeling on those rare days when Mom brought home Mallomars from the store instead of regular old Oreos or Fig Newtons. The rich, optimistic sight of a full box. The tragedy of near emptiness, the last Mallomar. Will we ever meet again? Sleeping over. Papa in his bathrobe. It's too bad you guys didn't know him before he got sick, Dad says. Sitting on his lap in the yellow chair. Blowing out his match. Scared to death.

It's not much of a connection to my grandfather. It doesn't need to be. It's just a cookie. And a Rembrandt is just a painting.

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