Ok, I've been hearing bits and pieces for years, but now it's coming from all directions, constantly, and I can't escape it.I blame the Hawaiians. Seriously--WTF?
I'm talking about SPAM, not the email kind that promises you a bigger johnson or riches from Nigeria, I'm talking about the pork by-product stuff that comes in a square can, that staple of Polynesian culture that I always assumed was most popular with the our-house-came-with-tires crowd. Seriously, when I think of SPAM, I picture dirty little barefoot kids playing in the yard next to the up-on-blocks-Camaro wearing only a diaper and a Kool-Aid mustache.
I don't know why, but it seems that lately, SPAM has gained in popularity and lost some of the stigma surrounding it. I'm still not on that particular bandwagon, nor do I anticipate ever jumping on, and I don't think it'll become mainstream until 1) I see it on the hood of a Nascar Sprint-Cup car on Sundays, 2) People in reality shows are seen eating it voluntarily, or 3) Word gets out that it's part of the buffet in the green room backstage at the Oprah show.
But it's out there, nibbling at the edges of my consciousness. Living in Vegas, we have a huge influx of Hawaiian tourists every year, and many of the hotels and restaurants that cater to them have extensive menus featuring SPAM in many of the entrees. Staying downtown last week, I couldn't escape it. But I'm not anywhere near the point of being hungry enough to order a bowl of Ramen noodles with SPAM in it, even if they call it by a fancy exotic-sounding name like saimin. If times are that tough, I'm eating lettuce leaves spread with peanut butter.
I can't escape it at home, either. Not that I have any on hand, but when I'm sitting in my boxers surfing the internet, drinking coffee and daydreaming about cocktail waitresses, palm trees, sailboats, and a huge bank account, I run across the Suburban Housefrau, blogging about her love of SPAM! That one caught me totally off-guard.
And in a recent Anthony Bourdain No Reservations episode, he was in Hawaii extolling the virtues of this once-derided mystery meat, even going so far as to gorge himself on sashimi made with SPAM. I know, it's not a stretch for him, he's all about the pork products, but still, I think it's that yellowish gelatin that slides out of the can with the meat that keeps me from indulging. It's not really bacon fat, something everybody loves, and the color just doesn't scream 'natural meat' whenever I see it.
Maybe the shape has something to do with my disdain for it, also. Meat is not square in nature. Steaks are steak-shaped. Hamburger is in bulk form until I shape it into a patty. Even my roast beef that I get at the local deli is naturally roast-beef shaped until it hits the slicer. Sausage links and hot dogs don't really count because we know of the casings--and we've all been eating hot dogs since before we were old enough to know better. A big gelatinous salted meat-cube sitting on a plate just doesn't look or sound very appetizing to me, that's all.
But I guess I'm kind of a food snob. I stopped eating bologna (baloney?) once I started working full-time several years ago. And I stopped drinking beer in cans after I got out of college. I haven't bought Ramen or Mac & Cheese in at least a dozen years. And I really don't want to find myself sitting on the couch watching daytime TV, snarfing on a SPAM-on-Wonderbread sandie anytime soon. If I do, you'll know that my cosmic scooter has run out of gas at the intersection of Rock and Bottom.
I remember back in the day--1990 to be exact--when I spent six months up in Alaska being a whitewater rafting guide. One of my fellow boatmen, a dude named Byron who spent his winters smoking weed and being a ski instructor in Jackson Hole, always carried around a backpack with him wherever he went. Granted, it was Alaska, so he didn't look out of place.
But one day, my curiosity got the best of me and I asked him why he carried the backpack every day and what could possibly be in it. Well, he dumped it out on the living room floor to show me what all he had. It was basically a mini-survival kit. There was a roll of duct tape, a knife and compass, some first-aid gear, spare wool socks, a bundle of nylon rope, a lighter, a bottle of Yukon Jack, and last but not least, a can of SPAM.
Dude, what's up with the SPAM?, I asked him.
Well, I've carried that with me for three years now, he said.
Why?, I asked.
It's my reminder that life ain't too bad. As long as I'm never hungry enough to have to open that can of SPAM, I know I'm doing ok.
I had to chuckle at the simplicity of thought, but the man was a sage in rubber boots. He was right, and I think we all can agree--As long as we never have to open a can of SPAM, life ain't too bad.
Mikey
No comments:
Post a Comment