My brother always knew when I’d been in the Raisin Bran. The box-shake above his bowl would yield a barrage of flakes but very few raisins, because already I would’ve picked most of them from the inner plastic bag. Oh, what joy those raisins, sugared to asphyxiation, desiccated and wrinkled far beyond the limits of a regular raisin, brought me!
Attempts to trick him, by adding fresh raisins to the flakes waiting inside the plastic bag and mixing it up with my hand, were never satisfactory. Because he, like I, was really only eating it for those tiny tiny raisins.