break·fes·sion
/ˈbrekˈfeSHən/

noun

Noun: breakfession; plural noun: breakfessions
a formal admission of guilt for violating cereal orthodoxy

“He signed a breakfession to mixing orange juice with Cocoa Puffs. He shall be milkboarded until sunrise as penance.”

Deep breath, Jared. You can do this.

Fellow cereal heads, I have to own up to something. This goes against every sacred principle our people hold. I won’t blame you for pelting me with marbits and extruded grains of various magical configurations. But I can’t go on hiding in the pantry like this. (Literally, because it’s very small and there are, like, fifteen boxes of cereal in there. Plus potential spiders.)

Friends. I don’t like Lucky Charms.

I know. I get it! Just hear me out. The substance of Lucky’s original treasure is about as bland as it gets. Even Corn Flakes at least taste like their eponymous source material, so you can throw a mushy hoedown while contemplating the familial history of Cornelius the Rooster and the NBC peacock. What, you’ve never noticed the obvious resemblance? Something tells me Miss Prissy wasn’t the only fryer in Foghorn’s coop.

The cardboard bits turn to mush and distract from the marshmallows which, while fun, have no taste other than straight fructose. There’s no complexity going on here. Sorry, Lucky, but your two-note song just doesn’t groove me.

So when Dan drew my Trader Joe’s-loving attention to Crispy Quinoa Stars, I was less-than-enthused. The box image immediately trips my ingrained Charms avoidance. These crispy crucibles of the known periodic table look just like the dry kibble that makes LCs such a chore to eat. But, hey, a cereal journalist has obligations, and the people need to know. So let’s fly through the cerealsphere to TJ’s in my (used, beat-up, Honda) rocket ship!

Well, they don’t smell like Lucky Charms. In fact, they don’t have a bouquet at all. There’s only a vague box musk. This is notable because 1) almost every cereal has a unique scent, so Trader Joe’s Crispy Quinoa Stars does an admirable job of hiding its trail from predators and 2) now I know what unmitigated cereal bag smells like. A large part of taste actually comes from your nose (seriously, Toucan Sam knows his trade), so I steeled myself for a tasteless trip down memory lane: to Saturday mornings at my friend’s house, where I would politely choke down a bowl of Kibbles-n-Marbits.

At first bite, there’s not much going on here. The most apparent thing about Crispy Quinoa Stars is the unique type of crunch. They’re not eponymously crispy like their rice-based cereal cousins. Nor are CQSs corn- or even oat-crunchy. The extruded quinoa flour is a new experience that’s difficult to define. Imagine overcooked Alpha-Bits. No major sugar hit. No grainy front-end, fruity rush, smoldering chocolate or peanut. Just an unremarkable bowl of Bachelor Chow. Chalk another one up to the—wait. Did I just taste something?

TJ’s takes their ingredients seriously. When these people say honey, we’re talking straight-from-the-plastic-bear honey. The floral and clover notes sneak in more discretely than a turtle in a trash heap. It’s pleasant, if underwhelming in comparison with other offerings. CQSs are already a better gluten-free offering than TJ’s previous attempt in that genre.

Milk helps out by giving your taste buds something to occupy them while the delayed flavor delivery shows up. There’s a strange dynamic at work here. Like some sort of enchanted Victorian delicacy, each spoonful is more pleasant than the last. It may be the lingering flavor of genuine honey, or perhaps the novelty of experiencing a quinoa base, but this stuff grows on you quickly. By the end of the bowl, I’m already reaching for the box again, my intention of using it for compost now totally forgotten.

I also noticed another reason for the uniqueness of this eating experience: no salt. There’s an underplayed salty dynamic at work in most cereals that strikes the tongue right away. QCSs are made without added salt, so that ubiquity is absent, as well. All this to say that I will never again be able to not taste the saltiness in other unadorned brown cereals. And in the same way that unprocessed quinoa sits lighter than rice or oatmeal, it satisfies without feeling heavy.

So, fine, Trader Joe, you’ve won me over. I’m on board for this unexpected journey through the molar system. Can we at least negotiate licensing for the really, really obvious mascot who should be on the packaging, though?

There is one caveat to this refreshing take on the crunchy brown cereal theme, however. Three days after opening the bag, with no warning, the stars immediately went stale. This could be due to the lack of preservatives, but it was notable. It’s a curiosity, if not one worth complaining about too much. I don’t expect future boxes will be making it that long in my house, anyway.

The Bowl: Trader Joe’s Crispy Quinoa Stars

The Breakdown: With an unassuming first act that makes way for a refreshingly light honey overture, this one is a slow burn that leaves you wanting more.

The Bottom Line: 7.5 overly analytical roosters out of 10