When I was 10 years old, General Mills released two new cereals that my brother and I, following orders from the television, demanded that Mom buy. Those cereals were Count Chocula and Frankenberry. This was about the same time that I was building those Universal Monsters models, and when I stayed up late every Saturday night to watch some B-grade, black and white horror movie on Creature Features. So the new cereals, with cartoon monsters featured prominently on the boxes, appealed to me. (Today, the scariest aspect of these “new” cereals is realizing that they were introduced almost half a century ago.)

Count Chocula, of course, was a chocolate flavored cereal, while Frankenberry purported to be strawberry flavored. Both contained what were called “marshmallow bits.” Alas, it turned out that the dye used in Frankenberry was undigestible in young children, resulting in a condition that came to be known as “Frankenberry Stool.” I’m not making this up. The recipe was soon changed.

A year later General Mills added “Boo-berry,” which was a blueberry flavored cereal with smirking ghost character wearing a porkpie hat and a bowtie. I refused to eat Boo-berry because I thought the ghost looked like Don Knotts in The Ghost and Mr. Chicken. Later additions were “Frute Brute” and “Yummy Mummy.”

Today Count Chocula, Frankenberry, and Booberry are available for a short time each fall, around Halloween. So I picked up a “family size” box of Frankenberry to see how it stacked up against my memory of it.

1.Packaging. OK, there’s some good Halloween imagery going on here. You’ve got your Frankenstein-like monster (even though he’s pink), a haunted house, a spider web around the General Mills logo, and the promise of “Monster Marshmallows” in monster typeface. And are those ghosts flying out of the bowl? This updated box portrays a somewhat better monster, I think, than the original box, where the monster looks like a pink gorilla with glasses. (Incidentally, you can get an original Frankenberry box — not the cereal, just the box — for slightly less than $1,000 on ebay.) I’ll give the packaging 3 points.

2. Appearance of the Treat. Here’s where things get a little hinky. Let’s separate out the base cereal product (BCP) from the “marshmallows.” (See detail in second picture below.) So, what is the BCP supposed to be portraying? They kind of look like one of the ghosts from PacMan. Or, if you flip it over, is it supposed to be the Frankenberry head, with the gauges and valves on the top? And why is it the color of Cheetos, which is a color I wouldn’t associate with strawberry?

Moving on to the alleged marshmallows: Are these supposed to represent anything? The one of the left (sort of a greyish color) might be a bat. The pink one in the middle might be a ghost, or a left-facing profile of a face with a large nose and a pronounced overbite. I have no idea what to make of the other two marshmallow shapes. The one thing I do know is that none of this adds up to anything even remotely scary, or Halloween-y, or even appetizing. No points.

3. Taste. As a concept, this cereal reminds me a lot of Lucky Charms, which is a cereal I never liked. At least back when I was a kid, Lucky Charms comprised an uninteresting, oat Base Cereal Product, punctuated with little marshmallows, which were the only part you actually wanted to eat. Now, I consider Frankenberry’s BCP to be superior to that of Lucky Charms, insofar as they’re slightly sweeter. Frankenberry’s not as sweet as, say, Froot Loops, and that’s probably a good thing. But the biggest problem with Frankenberry’s BCP is that they don’t really taste like anything. They certainly don’t taste like strawberry. They just have some kind of generic, slightly sweet, cereal taste. Couple that with the odd color and the puzzling shape, and the cereal is just confusing.

And then there are the “monster marshmallows.” They taste just like Lucky Charms’ marshmallows. They’re the only reason you’d ever really want to eat Lucky Charms. So let’s do a little experiment: I carefully isolated a bowl of just the marshmallow bits, added milk, and ate a few spoonfuls. The verdict? These things are disgusting. No points. I should have tried the Count Chocula.

4. Value. This “family-size” box cost $3.50. That seems to be about the going rate for breakfast cereal. It contains about 12 servings of 1-and-1/3 cups, which works out to about 30 cents per serving. There’s no toy in the box, but there is a half-hearted activity panel on the back of the box. I’ll give it 2 points.

Steve’s Spooktoberfest Score: 5 out of 12 points, which is a modest TRICK.

Today we wade back into the mysterious world of pumpkin-flavored treats. Specifically, we’re trying out Pepperidge Farm’s Pumpkin Cheesecake cookies. (Don’t worry; we will get to pumpkin-flavored beer before the month is out.)

Pepperidge Farm seems to have a real cachet among cookie lovers. It’s true that their cookies are unusually flavorful and rich, which is reflected in the fat and calorie count. (For example, just one of these cookies will deliver 13% of your daily required fat.) (I’ll also note here that loyal reader David W suggests that my scoring rubric should include calories per serving. This is a good idea that I will consider for next time.)

Anyway, today’s is another treat that isn’t distinctly marketed as a Halloween product, but rather evokes the general theme of fall. But given the explicit mention of pumpkin, I figure it qualifies for this project. So, with no further ado, on to the review.

1. Packaging. In keeping with the fall theme, the package is decorated with autumn leaves, and orange highlights are used to highlight the term “soft baked.” This is perfectly fine for an autumn-themed treat. But this blog wants to see at least some acknowledgement of Halloween. Like would a simple, uncarved pumpkin be too much to ask? Now, to be fair, there is a pumpkin on the side panel, where the key ingredients (“real pumpkin, brown sugar, cage-free eggs”) are mentioned. So I’ll give it a point.

2. Appearance of the Treat. Pepperidge Farm really knows how to dress up a cookie. Like their Chessmen cookies, or their Mint Milanos, or their Brussels. These are all works of art.

…And then there’ the Pumpkin Cheesecake cookie.

I understand the appeal of “soft baked,” but this cookie has all the character and appeal of a flat tire. The moist, not-quite-baked surface of this cookie adhered to its neighbor in the bag, and took a bit along with it on the way out. The whole cookie sags under its own weight as you raise it to your mouth. And what’s with these mystery chunks erupting here and there from the soft dough? They look like macadamia nuts, but there’s no mention of them in the ingredients list (see below). Are they accidental? Are they an amalgam of the other ingredients? Are they pumpkin nodules? Overall, this does not do a lot for me. No points.

3. Taste. The most I can say for these it that they’re inoffensive. But so are freshly-laundered socks, and I wouldn’t eat them for a Halloween treat. These cookies have a distinct pumpkin flavor on the finish, but you notice it only after working through some bland, doughy chewing. The truth is, these are a disappointment. Your mouth and stomach register that you’ve just consumed a lot of fat, but your taste buds are left wondering what all the fuss is about. They’re the soft-baked version of hard tack. 1 point.

4. Value. You get 8 cookies of approximately 1 ounce each for $3.89. That works out to about 50 cents per cookie (or twice the cost of a Pop-Tart). But the larger consideration here is that you wouldn’t really want to eat these, so they really aren’t a value at any price. No points.

Steve’s Sweetoberfest Score: 2 out of 12 points, which makes it a disappointing TRICK.

In November 1921, right here in Los Angeles, Charles Alexander See opened a candy shop whose products were made according to recipes from his elderly mother, Mary Wiseman See. As most of you know, See’s became a beloved and profitable candy company known throughout the land. My own grandmother, Dorothy Miller, loved See’s candies and always had them on hand at her home. And my great grandmother, Julia Burley, bore a striking resemblance to the mirthless Mary See herself.

So it seemed obvious that I should include a See’s product among the candies that I review this month. And so it was that I drove over to a See’s shop not far from the original store and purchased a See’s Marshmallow Jack O-Lantern.

1. Packaging. Once again, we’ve got a cellophane wrapper that allows you to see the candy before you decide on whether to buy it. I always count that as a plus. Then, they’ve decorated the package with white bats bearing grins suggesting the deleterious effects of rabies. It’s reasonably Halloween-y. 2 points.
2. Appearance of the Treat. Well now. The shape isn’t especially evocative of a pumpkin. It’s more like a circle with a slight bump on the top. The chocolate coating appears to have been applied with a butter knife, with no effort to mimic the vertical lines of a real pumpkin.

And then there’s the orange icing, which seems to have been hurriedly applied by Lucy and Ethyl while working at LA’s See’s candy factory. (The famous episode of I Love Lucy was actually filmed there.) The eyes and nose, which presumably were meant to be triangles, are barely recognizable as such. The mouth is just a quick squiggle, looking for all the world like Mr. Furley’s EKG graph when he mistakenly things Jack made a pass at him. And there are a few random orange spots marring the face like a bad case of acne. I can’t in good conscience condone such sloppy work. No points.

3. Taste. Here’s the opportunity for See’s to redeem itself. See’s is known for quality candy, with fresh ingredients and recipes that have stood the test of time.

The first thing that struck me upon biting into the candy was the satisfying crack of the chocolate coating. This was good, thick chocolate, unlike that ersatz stuff used by Russell Stover. See’s milk chocolate is reliably rich and smooth and satisfying, like a cup of good, hot cocoa on a cold morning.

The second notable thing about eating this treat is that the marshmallow filling is light and tasty — notably better than the Russell Stovers version. Combined, this was a very satisfying treat. I’ll give it 3 points.

4. Value. This pumpkin set me back $3.75, which at 2 ounces seems pretty steep, even for quality candy. You wouldn’t be inclined to hand these out willy-nilly to the little rugrats darkening your doorstep on Halloween. And you wouldn’t even be inclined to eat more than one or two of these yourself for the whole Halloween season. To put it bluntly, these are not a good value. They’re not a ripoff, but they’re not a bargain either. 1 point.

Steve’s Sweetoberfest Score: 6 out of 12 points, which we call a TREAK. Maybe you could buy yourself one, just to see what all the fuss is about. But don’t make a habit out of it.

When I was a lad, around the time I was Jonesing for homemade popcorn balls, I took to building plastic models of the Universal Studios monsters. A company called Aurora was selling the 1/8 scale model kits, which I thought were the bees knees (a phrase that I think was popular around my time, wasn’t it?) I first built The Forgotten Prisoner of Castel Mare, which, truth be told, was not actually featured in any Universal movie. In fact, it wasn’t even related to any recognizable story. It was just an idea from the creative minds at Aurora. But no matter. I thought it was cool: A skeleton shackled to a dungeon wall, with rats and random bones strewn about the floor. What more could a young boy in the 1960s want?

After building that kit, I moved on to the ones that really were featured in Universal’s movies: Frankenstein, Dracula, The Phantom of the Opera, The Mummy. This last one was not my favorite horror character; Boris Karloff as The Mummy didn’t really do anything other than stumble around really slowly (an observation made years ago by Bill Cosby). He just didn’t seem to have the elan of the other monsters. But I built the kit anyway, just to complete the collection.

I mention all this because today I was faced with a choice of several sugar cookie options: A ghost, a jack o-lantern, a pseudo-Frankenstein, or a mummy. I chose the latter for two reasons: (1) it looked whimsical, and (2) it appeared to have more frosting than the other cookies.

So let’s get down to the scoring!

1. Packaging. There’s really nothing to this packaging. It’s mainly just clear cellophane, what allows you to see exactly what your buying. From an artistic perspective, this is not impressive. But from from a transparency (ha!) perspective, it’s aces. (I think that was another phrase from my bygone era, no?) The package does acknowledge that it’s made by Deco Cookies (headquartered in the Mexican city of Huixquilucan, which must have a phenomenally high Scrabble value), and highlights the slogan “baking you happy.” I’ll give it 2 points for the transparency, which is welcome in this era of subterfuge and Fake News.

2. Appearance of the Treat. Is this cookie adorable, or what???

I’ll admit I’m a sucker for frosted sugar cookies, with their bright visual appeal and their simple, uncomplicated flavor. This particular cookie was well-executed: the eyes remind me of Cookie Monster, and the way that they peer out through bandages is fun and whimsical. The bandages (or whatever you call a mummy’s wrappings) are cleverly represented with white frosting ribbons. The overall appearance is at once clever and humorous and appetizing. I would be a schmuck to give it anything less than 3 points.

3. Taste. A frosted sugar cookie is a pretty simple confection to create. And when done right, it offers the perfect combination of a slightly chewy, melt-in-your-mouth sugar cookie base and a coating of sweet, satisfying frosting that’s, well, the frosting on the cake, if you’ll forgive the mixed metaphor. The folks at Deco Cookies evidently slept through that part of Baking 101. Instead of a soft cookie that yields to your teeth while releasing a fresh-baked taste of sweet vanilla with a hint of salt, this cookie reminded me of Zweiback toast. What’s more, my molars were in definite danger of enamel damage as they worked their way through the plaster-like consistency of this monstrosity (ha!). You can see from the photo below how, when I tried to slice it, the cookie crumbled like a saltine cracker. The dissonance between the expectations raised by this adorable cookie, and the experience of chipping away at it with my incisors, was heart-rending. Zero points.

4. Value. My local grocery store charged me $1.99 for this putative treat. For another quarter or two you could get a truly wonderful, satisfying cookie of at least the same size from your local bakery. I don’t consider this to be a good value. 1 point.

Steve’s Sweetoberfest Score: 6 out of 12 points, which is neither fish nor fowl, so we call it a TREAK.