My husband and I arrived in our household from opposite
culinary planets. Anyone who has ever
eaten a meal with my mother can attest to the fact that even her basic food
bordered on gourmet. Throwing a meal together still involved fresh
ingredients and tons of spices when she was cooking. I am not that good. My children know the pleasure of parboiled
noodles and space age orange cheese powder. I will eat anything that my snobby palate qualifies,
as quality, without hesitation. My
husband, however, suffers from no such hang-ups when it comes to his
cuisine. He will eat nearly anything that
is not nailed down. I have seen him
combine condiments in a fashion that defies comprehension I ate my first packet
of Ramen noodles and prepackaged Lipton Rice with him. We avoided the bottom shelf of the grocery store
growing up, too many ingredients we could not pronounce. We fought, during one of our financial rough
spots, over my obsession with artichoke hearts and fresh garlic. I can say, with great honesty that I picked
the wrong economic time to get obsessed with Clean Eating. The fresh zucchini with the garlic crust was
not worth two days without gas money. Eventually, we made it to the culinary
middle ground where we are sacrificing neither quality nor money. At least I thought we had. Then IT came in the last grocery-shopping
trip. Six cans of SPAM sitting in my
cabinet, taunting me with its odd consistency and five-year shelf life. Food, of any sort in a can, has never been my
thing. Meat in a can has a particularly nightmarish
quality because it taunts me with visions of botulism and salmonella. I know this is neurotic, but I have learned
to embrace the overly anxious side of myself and make it work for good instead
of evil. Part of me wants to throw it
out but I will not. He has succeeded in
turning me into a dollar watcher. I cannot
bring myself to throw out something that we paid for with our hours away from
the children and lost time as a couple.
I am going to cook SPAM.
The thought makes me shudder, but I am going to do it because that is
the challenge that has been presented to me.
I will, however, be darned if I am going to sit around my table gnawing
on chunks of fried congealed meat product slathered in ketchup. I am going to turn this SPAM into a culinary
event if it kills me and it might because let us face it we are talking about
SPAM. The internet provides a surprising
number of suggestions.
I do notice that the majority of the recopies involve SPAM
sculptures. My assumption is that this
is a desperate bid on the part of the chef.
They are hoping that the wonders of the eye will detract from the
terrors of the taste buds. I opt to for Korea BBQ Spam with Quinoa and mixed
vegetables. My mother would be proud of
my industriousness and newfound thrifty nature, but I am still not sure she
would partake in my canned meat concoction.
We sit down to dine. The flavor is not bad, but the chunks of stir-fried
SPAM slide down my throat in quite the odd fashion. The salt content is so high that I am
convinced that I can feel the skin on the roof of my mouther withering. He pats
my hand while we are eating.
“It is really good but this is the last time I buy SPAM, I
promise,” He says with a smile.
I am relieved until I contemplate the four additional cans
that are still lurking behind the cabinet door.
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