I have mentioned in the past that I eat a lot of jelly beans. They seem to be the perfect food: easy to digest, offered in a variety of flavors, and chock full of sugar. I’ve also advised, for those with dietary restrictions, to go for the best. Thus my preference to purchase Jelly Belly gourmet jelly beans.
I’ve had some time to ponder this, and have settled on a list of the five absolute best Jelly Belly flavors. They are, without question:
1. Bubble Gum
2. Sizzling Cinnamon
3. A & W® Root Beer
4. Dr. Pepper®
5. Tutti-Frutti
Conversely, the worst flavors are:
1. Buttered Popcorn
2. Margarita
3. Mango
4. Juicy Pear
5. Birthday Cake
I always keep a three-pound bag of Jelly Belly beans in the house. It’s pretty much the only thing I can snack on without digestive issues. My husband largely ignored the bag, sticking to his peanut butter cups and granola bars, which worked out well for almost a year . . . until this past Sunday.
Maybe we didn’t have enough junk food in the house. Maybe he was craving something sweet, and sugar straight out of the bowl wasn’t cutting it. Whatever the reason, he got into my jelly beans.
Here’s where I’m going to stop and explain something rather important: Jason does not practice the concept of moderation. If he buys a box of Fruit Rollups or a strawberry rhubarb pie, for instance, neither thing will last more than eight hours in the house. The notion of a taste or smidgen is completely alien to him. (On the plus side, I rarely have to toss leftovers, as there never are any.) So when I spotted his fistful of jelly beans, I freaked.
“Are you out of your mind?” I asked, like he’d just bought a dog or something.
“What? Hey, you’re right—these are good.”
My heart sank. Unlike the human garbage disposal I lived with, my snacking options were limited. If we ran out of jelly beans, there was nothing else in the house I could eat instead without running to the toilet twenty minutes after consumption.
He tried to reassure me: “You hate the buttered popcorn, right? I’ll eat all those.” This was comforting. Eating a buttered popcorn jelly bean always made me think, If I ever get the urge to lick the inside of a dumpster, this is what it would taste like. I grudgingly agreed he could eat those.
Except he didn’t limit it to those. It turns out he also likes the root beer, Dr. Pepper, and tutti-frutti flavors. And he’s one of those obnoxious people that will fish out their favorites and leave the rest, instead of those polite “taking a handful and eating what you get” types. Sunday night, I went to pack my lunch and found my Jelly Belly bag was lighter by two pounds. And what remained as a sea of mango and juicy pear.
I can take a lot, but this had pushed me past my limit. “I want a divorce,” I announced. Jason thought I was kidding. I was not. He suggested counseling. I was hearing none of it. I just wanted my darn bubble gum jelly beans, and unless the marriage counselor gave away pounds of those as a “thanks for trying to work it out” reward, I was done.
He suggested I was being unreasonable. I pelted him with mango beans, and he stormed out of the house in a huff. I started packing my clothes. Twenty minutes later, I heard his key in the lock. He’d returned, this time with two bags of Jelly Bellies, clearly marked “His” and “Hers” in Sharpie. Plus a bag of all Sizzling Cinnamon, just for me.
“I guess I’ll stay,” I said with a sniffle. I opened the Sizzling Cinnamon bag and peered in. “What, they didn’t have bubble gum?”
They had not. Fair warning, people: I can’t promise I’ll be staying.
I’ve had some time to ponder this, and have settled on a list of the five absolute best Jelly Belly flavors. They are, without question:
1. Bubble Gum
2. Sizzling Cinnamon
3. A & W® Root Beer
4. Dr. Pepper®
5. Tutti-Frutti
Conversely, the worst flavors are:
1. Buttered Popcorn
2. Margarita
3. Mango
4. Juicy Pear
5. Birthday Cake
I always keep a three-pound bag of Jelly Belly beans in the house. It’s pretty much the only thing I can snack on without digestive issues. My husband largely ignored the bag, sticking to his peanut butter cups and granola bars, which worked out well for almost a year . . . until this past Sunday.
Maybe we didn’t have enough junk food in the house. Maybe he was craving something sweet, and sugar straight out of the bowl wasn’t cutting it. Whatever the reason, he got into my jelly beans.
Here’s where I’m going to stop and explain something rather important: Jason does not practice the concept of moderation. If he buys a box of Fruit Rollups or a strawberry rhubarb pie, for instance, neither thing will last more than eight hours in the house. The notion of a taste or smidgen is completely alien to him. (On the plus side, I rarely have to toss leftovers, as there never are any.) So when I spotted his fistful of jelly beans, I freaked.
“Are you out of your mind?” I asked, like he’d just bought a dog or something.
“What? Hey, you’re right—these are good.”
My heart sank. Unlike the human garbage disposal I lived with, my snacking options were limited. If we ran out of jelly beans, there was nothing else in the house I could eat instead without running to the toilet twenty minutes after consumption.
He tried to reassure me: “You hate the buttered popcorn, right? I’ll eat all those.” This was comforting. Eating a buttered popcorn jelly bean always made me think, If I ever get the urge to lick the inside of a dumpster, this is what it would taste like. I grudgingly agreed he could eat those.
Except he didn’t limit it to those. It turns out he also likes the root beer, Dr. Pepper, and tutti-frutti flavors. And he’s one of those obnoxious people that will fish out their favorites and leave the rest, instead of those polite “taking a handful and eating what you get” types. Sunday night, I went to pack my lunch and found my Jelly Belly bag was lighter by two pounds. And what remained as a sea of mango and juicy pear.
I can take a lot, but this had pushed me past my limit. “I want a divorce,” I announced. Jason thought I was kidding. I was not. He suggested counseling. I was hearing none of it. I just wanted my darn bubble gum jelly beans, and unless the marriage counselor gave away pounds of those as a “thanks for trying to work it out” reward, I was done.
He suggested I was being unreasonable. I pelted him with mango beans, and he stormed out of the house in a huff. I started packing my clothes. Twenty minutes later, I heard his key in the lock. He’d returned, this time with two bags of Jelly Bellies, clearly marked “His” and “Hers” in Sharpie. Plus a bag of all Sizzling Cinnamon, just for me.
“I guess I’ll stay,” I said with a sniffle. I opened the Sizzling Cinnamon bag and peered in. “What, they didn’t have bubble gum?”
They had not. Fair warning, people: I can’t promise I’ll be staying.
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