Key sentence overheard this evening: "it's food; screw Buddhism!" This was uttered by my apartment mate, twenty minutes after I told her about the can of Spam in the refrigerator. And that she should feel free to go help herself, because I cannot possibly finish it all alone. Spam, as everyone knows, is made from the most delightful part of the hog.
Spam has spiritual resonance for some people. Her in particular. There's something so comforting and rewarding about Spam. Our ancestors used to roam the veldt hunting the wild Spam. Spam was shared by Jesus and his freaks at the last supper, before his holiness Jerome Garcia croaked.
All emergency airdrops contain crates of Spam. Spam is what the Icelanders would consume if they weren't forced to eat whale.
It's a sign of enduring friendship in Japan.
Spam is the all-American sacrament; our glorious soccer team in Brazil practically lives off Spam, because there is nothing good to eat there.
Spam and scrambled eggs on toast smeared liberally with red curry paste, Sriracha hotsauce squooze over, plus capers and sliced Jalapeño chilies to garnish.
I didn't feel like cooking; that was just a snack.
Spamerrific, Spamalicious.
My apartment mate isn't always at home during the evening, she has her own life. Occassionally she stays overnight at her boyfriends place; just her, wheelie boy, and undoubtedly not a scrap of Spam anywhere!
He's a weird white food purist, and really sensitive to salt.
No soy sauce. No oyster sauce. No condiments.
And no Spam. Poor bastard.
But when she is home, she is welcome to my cans of Spam.
Spam is goodness and sunlight rolled into one.
Our boys in Brazil will win, because of it.
The astronauts took it to the moon.
Ronald Reagan breathed it.
It's potent JuJu.
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1 comment:
Was spam common in the lowlands of europe, or were you only introduced to it when you returned to the US? Perhaps, did your father become acquainted in the air force?
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