True Confessions, True Love

I’m glad my secret is out.

I can’t begin to tell you how long I lived in my self imposed prison.  Why I dreaded going to social engagements of any kind.   Wedding receptions.  Graduation celebrations.  Birthday bashes. Any occasion where  small talk  could possibly turn to  food.  Because I was terrified the subject would come up-and  people might find out the truth about me.

I succumb once again to the object of my  desire.  I hold the rectangular blue can in my hands for a moment or two, before peeling back the top. Yet  I’ve never dared to read what is written below the word ‘ingredients.”   I guess I'm no better than any one else who jokes about this mystery meat.  Or perhaps I just don’t care.  All I know is that I like it.  A lot.

Then came that party-the one that changed my life.   “What’s your favorite dish?”  queried our hostess.   Responses flew around the room-“Steak!”  “ Lobster!” “ Spaghetti with meatballs!”  And then some wise guy just had to say it.   “How about SPAM?”  There was no missing the smirk on his face.

It takes a bit of doing to free the block of meat from the confines of its can -but then good things are worth the effort.  I slice the SPAM thinly this morning-and fry it up with some  eggs.  Bliss.

The laughter that erupted in the room was so predictable.  “What is SPAM?” someone snickered.  “Does anyone really know?”  What does S-P-A-M stand for anyway?  And then the million dollar question.   Does anyone even like SPAM?

I  look at the can again while the SPAM is cooking, and I think to myself- “Go on… read the ingredients. ”   My eyes scan the list…chopped pork shoulder and ham, salt, water, modified potato starch, sodium nitrate.    I might not know what each ingredient is exactly-but at least they are all familiar to me.  So there.  None of the rumors I’ve heard about what goes into SPAM are true.

“I like SPAM,”  someone bravely states, but it isn’t me who has spoken the words.    I locate the man behind the voice and my heart skips a beat.   “Where have you been all my life?” I whisper to myself.

Yes, thin  slices this morning-it makes a can of SPAM go further –more than enough for two. Paul Anka comes on the radio, and as I  get ready  to tell my new husband that breakfast is ready, I find myself singing along…

“Put your head on my pork shoulder.  Hold me in your arms, baby…”