My pantry is as respectable as any other youngish suburbanite’s—stocked with whole wheat flour, agave nectar, organic peanut butter, flax seeds. But, from time to time, on the bottom shelf toward the back, I’ll slip in a dirty little secret: Chips Ahoy, Cheetos, even Pop Tarts.
I can’t help it. I am a child of the seventies, a beautiful time to be a kid, when moms packed things like Twinkies in lunchboxes and Tang was considered nutritious. At least on TV, Stove Top stuffing meant “I’m staying,” and Entenmann’s donuts were, in some houses (alas not mine), considered an acceptable accompaniment to scrambled eggs. Nobody worried (much) about MSG, trans fats or corn syrup. We just ate.
Today, I think if somebody served me, for the first time, a steaming bowl of Hamburger Helper, I’d think it was disgusting. But that powdery, phony beef stroganoff taste rings familiar. It’s grandfathered in.
When I was a kid, Hamburger Helper night meant my parents were going out and a teenager was coming to babysit and teach us disco dancing in the den. Kraft macaroni and cheese was for rainy summer days, and at Sunday school Hawaiian Punch poured thick and syrupy sweet from metal cans. Spaghettios with tiny plasticy meatballs were eaten, rarities of all rarities, on trays in front of reruns of Gilligan’s Island or The Munsters.
Once a year, before there was “Take Your Daughter to Work Day,” my dad would take me into his office. This was big stuff, as his office was on Park Avenue in Manhattan. We’d take the train in, and my father’s secretary would give me a cold soda while grownups drank coffee. I’d get to hear Dad, perched behind his huge desk, answer his phone with a gruff “Krainer.” We’d eat a fancy lunch uptown, sometimes followed by a trip to Central Park for a “chipwich,” a blob of vanilla ice cream pressed between two soggy chocolate chip cookies. Wolfed down as we walked by the boat pond, it was sublime.
On a recent road trip (a perfect excuse to raid gas station shelves for junk food), a version of that Central Park chipwich beckoned from the freezer case. It had five hundred calories and lots of diglycerides and ingredients with “gum” as the second word, but it was worth every nostalgic bite.
Mom, this stuff sounds like it was gross. ~ Emma
Emma, you are a snob. ~ Mrs. DeLuca
Laura, this was fun to read. Especially reading about the times you came to my office in Manhattan. I remember. ~ Dear Old Dad.