I’ve come to hate Oreos. That ever-present occupant of grocery store shelves, that staple snack of the American household. Flavors abound: orange creme for Halloween, purple on Easter. Oreos dominate the modern convenience store culture, pushing out competition. They’re an overbearing multinational corporation, without heart or passion, hell-bent on cold profit. All I can see now are the rows and rows and rows and rows moving down the factory assembly line, churned out by hard metal robots who have no clue what love means. Double Stuf. Most Stuf. Thins. That loud blue package makes me want to scream.

But Joe-Joe’s, Trader Joe’s answer to the evil Oreo, give me hope. They don’t pretend to be anything they aren’t. The package is covered with warm designs, loving artwork, colors that draw me in. They’re unpretentious, subtle; they exist and they don’t care if you eat them or not. They sit on that Trader Joe’s shelf, content with just being themselves. And even the taste is better. Oreos long ago forgot where they came from, the creme filling as artificial as it can be. But Joe-Joe’s remind you that they are made with actual milk. It’s a flavor note that sits in the back of your mind, there when you want it, reassuring you that there’s hope for the sandwich cookie world yet.

Thank you, Joe-Joe’s. Thank you.