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.
“Remember if you are alone in the kitchen, who is going to see you?” ~ Julia Child