Let Them Eat Spam

We all know these are tough economic times, and it seems as if every day, the news just gets worst, but boy, I never saw this one coming.

The New York Times reported last week that Hormel workers are producing a record amount of canned Spam.

And here's the kicker: People are eating it.

Wow. Talk about sacrifice.

There are two kinds of people when it comes to canned Spam.

Offer a slab of the pink brick of pork to those who never have tasted it, and chances are they'll recoil as if you'd just asked them to eat a slice of their own livers.

Make the same offer to those who grew up with Spam, and they may flinch, but those flashbacks will pass, and before you know it, they will recite a recipe or two from childhoods that tend to have working-class roots.

Oh, the memories, and they only begin with Spam slathered with mustard and wedged between two slices of Schwebel's white bread. There are Spam burgers and fried Spam and eggs. Spam kebobs are big, too, and don't forget to soak those wooden spikes in water before sticking them in the oven. The smoke alone will kill you, not to mention what your father's going to do when he sees flames shooting out of the oven. Whew. Some memories do haunt.

And who can forget the first time we sliced into Spam upside-down pie?

(Line an 8-inch mold with Spam slices and fill with baking powder biscuit dough well-laced with tiny cubes of Spam. Bake 40-45 min. at 425 degrees. …)

Those of us who grew up eating Spam ought to have our own handshake. Maybe even a medal or something. How about a bumper sticker? You know, just a little heads-up on the back of the car — maybe "SPAWN OF SPAM" — to warn the grumpy guy behind us that he might want to think twice before laying on that horn.

I spent my formative years eating shiny pork pieces packed in gelatin, tinged with nitrite, and sealed in cans with expiration dates that'll outlive all of us.

Now, I haven't sliced into a loaf of Spam since I was about 15, which is when I first realized that fat in the can becomes fat on the can. Of my three siblings, the only one who admits to still eating Spam is my sister Toni — with a caveat: no more white bread for her.

"I'm a nine-grainer these days," she told me. She eats her Spam on bread that's heavier than a Timberline boot. Her cholesterol levels are great, so I guess all that grain just rockets those 6 grams of saturated fat right through her.

Unfortunately, most of us aren't so lucky when it comes to the traffic patterns of fat and cholesterol. And that matters, especially these days.

The New York Times reported that Spam sales are soaring. Two shifts of workers at the Hormel plant have been churning out Spam seven days a week since July, with no end in sight.

Spam "seems to do well when hard times hit," a union official told reporter Andrew Martin. "We'll probably see Spam lines instead of soup lines."

Good Lord.

A 12-ounce can of Spam goes for $2 to $3, depending on where you buy it. That's a lot cheaper than the average pack of skinless chicken breast or fresh vegetables needed to make stir-fry. In fact, when it comes to cost, it's hard to imagine any healthy meal that could rival Spam. That is worrisome news for those already bending from the burden of economic woes. The last thing stressed-out families with mounting bills and no health care need is a single serving of anything that comes with 180 calories, 16 grams of fat and no nutrition. But it's one of the first things they buy when the paycheck is running out.

Desperate times, desperate measures. Or in this case, desperate recipes. Having grown up in a family often strapped by hard times, I know why Spam is becoming a staple for a whole new generation of Americans.

May they live to tell the tale.

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist for The Plain Dealer in Cleveland and the author of two books from Random House: "Life Happens" and "… and His Lovely Wife." To find out more about Connie Schultz (cschultz@plaind.com) and read her past columns, please visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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