I've always hated Spam. Since before I was born. Well, practically.
It is no exaggeration to say that Spam never had a chance with me. A child of the suburbs in the 1950s, I was all too sensitive to the domestic depravities of that era. And Spam, 16 years on the market by the time I was born, qualified as one of those depravities.
For one, Spam was the color of the 1950s: preternaturally pink, a slightly speckled flesh tone shared by Caucasians and pigs. When fried, Spam acquired an even more unfortunate hue, kind of like a radioactive tongue. Preferably served with bilious green canned vegetables in a nauseating color scheme, Spam was a visual depressant, able to knock the wind out of the most ebullient child.
Even at the time, I was painfully aware that the perpetrators of this sorry excuse for a foodstuff were attempting to sell a sow's ear (or pork shoulder) as a silk purse. It was as if they were inculcating Mr. and Mrs. Consumer and the tykes with the notion that this was all you could expect of life - but you'd better well be pleased with it.
I was on to them. Maybe that's why I associate Peggy Lee's classic lament, "Is That All There Is," with the underwhelming table set for children in the 1950s.
As I look back, the song, recorded by Lee in 1969, is the perfect existential paean to the previous decade, when television soap operas, the Cold War and Dick, Jane and Sally shaped our expectations. In this stifling climate, Spam was the dish of last resort, prepared by
desperate housewives who for the life of them couldn't produce one more dazzling roast for their Ward Cleavers. Besides, with pineapple chunks for garnish and a cocktail or two, who would know the difference?
So, I remember reasoning, however inchoately: What is the point of life, if Spam is all there is?
In keeping with this bleak social message (at least as I interpreted it), Spam smacked of despair, as if all that was sad, wanting and meaningless had been packed into that can. Aggressively salty, and ultra high in fat, Spam was the poor man's pate, an edible iteration of drudgery and routine and suburban malaise.
An overreaction to a benign product? Not at all. It's a visceral response to a product that through the years has acquired a campy, iconic notoriety and, as a consequence, justifies my rant.
