Hello, lovely fried pillows of crispy and melty Oreo goodness. Oh my cookies, as 2-year-old grandson Capt. Adorable says — literally, in this case. We were driving through our town of Florence, Alabama, when my husband casually says, “Look at that sign. It says,”Cold beer, hot wings and fried Oreos.’ We should go there sometime.” Since he and I each are obsessively devoted to finding the best of two of these three categories — the wings for him, the Oreos for me and the beer for both of us — I couldn’t believe I’d never noticed this Wing Shack of paradise before. Sadly, my husband had to go back to work or something after our discovery so I was left on my own to immediately indulge in an intense Oreo fried orgy objectively and calmly check this place out. All I can say is: Thank you, dear person who first had the radical idea of frying Oreos. I love you.

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