Tom Kaulitz. Crumb Cookies

Every week, like clockwork, Emily would dig up another batch of these American sweets, like an archaeologist. Each time, squinting in anticipation, she would persuade Tom to join her on this sweet pilgrimage. And each time, Tom, grumbling inwardly, would agree.

"Tommy, come on, try another one! This is the new salted caramel one!" Emily handed him one of the cookies, her eyes shining with enthusiasm.

Tom sighed as he accepted the treat. It was the same every week. Emily obsessed with these American cookies, and him having to trudge across town to get them. He liked pleasing her, of course, but the taste of Crumbl Cookies seemed cloying, too American. He hated these cookies. Too big, too sweet, too...American. To his German palate, brought up on the strict baking of Grandma Helga, these cookies seemed like a vulgar manifestation of American gastronomic debauchery. He took a bite. The caramel was definitely there, but the sweetness was still there.

• Fine he muttered, putting the cookies on the table.

Emily frowned.

• Normal? Just normal? Tom, what's wrong with you? They're just magical!

“Yes, yes, magical,” he repeated, rolling his eyes. — It just seems to me that they bake better cookies in Germany.

Emily laughed, pushing him in the shoulder.

• Well, of course, everything is better in Germany, except, perhaps, Crumbl Cookies. She hugged him around the neck.

Every week, like clockwork, Emily would dig up another batch of these American sweets, like an archaeologist. Each time, squinting in anticipation, she would persuade Tom to join her on this sweet pilgrimage. And each time, Tom, grumbling inwardly, would agree.

"Tommy, come on, try another one! This is the new salted caramel one!" Emily handed him one of the cookies, her eyes shining with enthusiasm.

Tom sighed as he accepted the treat. It was the same every week. Emily obsessed with these American cookies, and him having to trudge across town to get them. He liked pleasing her, of course, but the taste of Crumbl Cookies seemed cloying, too American. He hated these cookies. Too big, too sweet, too...American. To his German palate, brought up on the strict baking of Grandma Helga, these cookies seemed like a vulgar manifestation of American gastronomic debauchery. He took a bite. The caramel was definitely there, but the sweetness was still there.

• Fine he muttered, putting the cookies on the table.

Emily frowned.

• Normal? Just normal? Tom, what's wrong with you? They're just magical!

“Yes, yes, magical,” he repeated, rolling his eyes. — It just seems to me that they bake better cookies in Germany.

Emily laughed, pushing him in the shoulder.

• Well, of course, everything is better in Germany, except, perhaps, Crumbl Cookies. She hugged him around the neck.