Cereal mixology is a topic close to my heart.

Granted, I don’t actually mix cereals often—usually when I’m running uncomfortably low on one and/or the other cereal—but the infinite conceptual liberty that comes from architecting palate-impacting pairings that transform a familiar cereal experience into a work of edible interpretive art. And that’s before you add different milks to the equation!

There are obvious mixes, like Donettes + Honey Bun Cereal + Milky Coffee.

There are weirder ideas, like Banana Creme Frosted Flakes + Millville Peanut Butter & Jelly Puffs + Vanilla Almond Milk + Maple Syrup (I call it “An Unforgettable Bruncheon”).

And then there are mixes so uncouth and dubious that they border on cereal slander. Mixes like the one proposed and encouraged (but never confidently owned) by Kellogg’s in its All Together Cereal.

Released in support of GLAAD and LGBTQ+ youth for Spirit Day, All Together Cereal is a $20 novelty box stuffed with six miniature cereal boxes that, theoretically, you’re meant to gob all up in the same bowl as a symbol of intersectional solidarity. Of course, when you realize that Kellogg’s is only donating up to $50,000, a ‘stunning’ 1/258,640 of their annual revenue, All Together Cereal becomes a pretty obvious face for Rainbow Capitalism.

So while the concept is good-natured and silly, it has its share of ethical undoings before even cracking it open. But hey, might as well see just how offensive the proposed cereal concoction is, too!

Now, I didn’t want to go full melting pot and melt my taste buds right away. No, I wanted to build this beast one mini box at a time and see just where Kellogg’s modern-day Bigg(er) Mixx goes from an altogether good idea to something I have to struggle through in order to keep my brain matter “all together.”

Rice Krispies (1/6 Together)

I had to start with the most baseline and mixologically inoffensive of the whole bunch. No matter what comes next, I have no doubt that the sheer vapidity of Rice Krispies will neither help nor harm the grander integrity of the confectioned concoction.

I’ll admit—as I have in many candid, TMZ-worthy moments—that the likes of Krispies and Pebbles always disappoint me, as I like a cereal that hits my gut like crunchy anchors, rather than sea foam. And plain ol’ Rice Krispies are the worst about it. I get it: babies like the stuff, and it’s an essential raw material for crafting Treats.

But as the baseline for this behemoth, it’s nothing more than a bland bedrock. An invisible hand that compels every cereal to come to do better.

The Bottom Line: 3 shrugs of “It’s Rice Krispies” out of 10

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Corn Flakes (1/3 Together)

Coming in just above bedrock is an elementary and crumply layer of Corn Flakes. Of course, it’s hard to expect much more from Corn Flakes than we did Rice Krispies, but just as Corn Chex is the unequivocal elder of Rice Chex, ol’ Cornelius’ golden shards bring a subtly, but much needed savory–saltiness that adds both substantial texture and depth to the airy wisps it’s intermixed with.

Is the combo of Corn Flakrispies remarkable? Absolutely not.
But is it enjoyable nonetheless? Still no. If I wanted a touch of wholesomeness in my already plain breakfast cereal, I’d just buy, oh I don’t know, a full box of Corn Flakes.

It still gets a +1 for textural contrast though.

The Bottom Line: 4 cluckin’ boring spoonfuls out of 10

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Frosted Flakes (1/2 Together)

So we have bedrock, and we have some sort of sandy rockhead. Well if we’re playing by Minecraft rules, that means Frosted Flakes is All Together’s beautiful but largely purposeless Lapiz Lazuli.

Yes, Tony’s Frosted Flakes—which we all deeply hope isn’t his edible dandruff—bring a unifying and pleasant sweetness to this slowly sedimenting cereal. But beneath that one-note glaze, they’re still just Cool Corn Flakes, and therefore don’t contribute any novel nor Nobel-worthy textural innovations.

I’d argue that Kellogg’s could’ve just chucked in Frosted Rice Krispies instead of the plain—or even their pathetic excuse for an RKTC 2.0—and ditched the ordinary Krispies or Frosted Flakes for something more interesting or Roy G. Biv approved:

A minor critique, but here's what the line-up of miniature boxes in All Together Cereal would look like (top) vs. how Kellogg's COULD have done it (bottom). 🏳️‍🌈🌈🏳️‍🌈🌈 https://t.co/BuS6648luL pic.twitter.com/b9TU2vltpM

— Cerealously 🥛🥣 (@cerealouslynet) October 17, 2019

The Bottom Line: 5  GRRR-anulated scoops of bare-minimum cereal GRRR-uel out of 10

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Raisin Bran (2/3 Together)

Now we’re talkin’. As the purpliest mini-box in this purple giga-box, Raisin Bran also plays arguably the most vital role in the gathering of this megalithic All Together Cereal.

It is a conduit. A bridge. A link between the lands of grain and fruit.

Sure, the flakes are pretty good. Bran flakes inarguably have a heartier and more punchily earthy flavor, but because Kellogg’s chose classic (emphasis on the ass) Raisin Bran instead of Raisin Bran Crunch, the flakes aren’t as crunchy as they could/should be, leaving the raisins to be the subversively sun-dried game-changers All Together needs.

In a sea of variously empty starches, biting into a raisin is like finding a marble in a cornmeal stack. My prayers for textural variety seem to have been over-answered, genie style, but the pop of tangy–sweet raisins brings new depth to Kellogg’s increasingly swirly swill.

And yet, taken as a whole, All Together Cereal now just tastes like Scorched Earth Raisin Bran, as the few raisins (that inevitably sink into the sub-Krispies netherbowl) still can’t with the miscellaneous packing material strewn around and above it. At this point, if you’ve already mixed four cereals, you might as well chuck in a few Raisinettes for good measure.

Or at least a carafe of maple syrup.

The Bottom Line: 5.5 crouton-equivalent raisins out of 10

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Froot Loops (5/6 Together)

Now we’re squawkin’. If Raisin Bran was the bridge from reason to entropy, Froot Loops is St. Peter at the gates of heavenly madness.

Or perhaps it’s Luciferianly contrarian, as Toucan Sams defies expectations by making Froot Loops work in All Together Cereal. And by work, I mean pretty much all the non-raisined work.

If you’ve ever wanted a tolerable Fruit Cake Cereal, here you go: it’ll only take you five cereal boxes. In a real bowl of Froot Loops, the swirling Superman of an ambiguous faux-tropical medley lends itself to more minute dissection—to the point where many subliminally believe each Loop tastes different.

But in All Together Cereal, Froot Loops sets a more permeant atmosphere, accenting the golden-baked, quasi-nutty flake medley and occasional pops of dried fruit with a kiss of childhood. Cereal companies are desperate to find a way to make the s tuff more palatable to modern audiences, but I feel like instead of just jamming marbits into everything, perhaps they should consider using classic cereals as flavor-tweaking overseers for completely new ideas.

I mean, can you imagine a Froot Loops Pop-Tarts Cereal?

The Bottom Line: 6.5 marshmallow-iced cereal toaster pastries out of 10

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Frosted Mini-Wheats (ALL TOGETHER NOW!)

‘I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them,’ I quote to myself above the coffee table-cracking weight of the mistake I’ve birthed. It really doesn’t take much to plummet a cereal’s positive development beyond ‘mixed feelings’ all the way down to ‘primordial penance,’ and Frosted Mini-Wheats are the bricks that crumble the whole operation.

This was expected, of course, from the beginning. Just as you can’t throw a curveball with a bowling ball in baseball, you can’t just hyuck, or dare I say yeet, a bunch of hay bales into a hitherto delicate and demure cereal.

If the raisins were tiny palate anchors, the Mini-Wheats hit your mouth like beached whales—and they taste just as mournfully swollen. Look, I have no problem with Frosted Mini-Wheats on their own—although, like Frosted Flakes, I prefer their variants to the straight sugar-frosted original—but there’s some bad blood magic that occurs when they start to mingle with the other pieces. Call it sensory overload or anti-girth bias, but the dense thatched wheat ends up glaringly standing out amongst the other components with a sickly–sweet, almost bitter graininess, which gets worse when you realize you’ll be chewing these Mini-Wheats more than anything else in the bowl.

Add milk to that equation? You’ve got a chunky cereal stew with too many bulging bouillon cubes. Granted, when left in milk long enough to properly soggify each cereal component into a single slurry—comparable to the mad gods produced by many myths bleeding into each other—it becomes impossible to taste any nuance beyond “Froot Loop-dusted multigrain bread with a lone raisin in each slice.”

So while I certainly can’t recommend All Together Cereal as a sound philanthropic idea (instead, you may be better off donating directly to GLAAD) nor an appetizing über-munch (at any stage), I can say that…well…I can certainly say this is the most cardboard I’ll recycle from a single review.

The Bottom Line: 3 full circle, universe-resetting cosmic cereal terrors out of 10