While watching television the other night, I almost fell off the couch, and not because of naked bodies or bloody murders. It was because there, on my 50-inch screen, was a TV commercial for Spam.
When was the last time you saw one of those? Not a can of Spam, but a commercial hawking our top-selling canned meat? As if anybody has to twist our arm.
Hawaii has the most Spam-eaters in all 50 states — 12 cans per year per person — although we’re edged out by Guam claiming 16 cans per year per person. Guam, that small U.S. island territory in the west Pacific beats us in the Spam consumer contest.
What a surprise. I love Spam. Not only is it a treat for the taste buds, but when artfully paired with white rice and black nori, that tantalizing pink slab of undetermined pork products is a feast for the eyes!
When I moved to Seattle, I was surprised to learn that many nonislanders did not share our love for Spam, and in fact, sneered at it. I served on a committee for a colleague at the college, and when she received tenure, she thanked me with a box full of Spam: Classic, Lite, every variety. I should have noticed her dancing eyes and twitching lips, but I was too excited.
Months later, during a meeting on curriculum design or something, she leaned over and whispered, “So, what did you do with all that Spam?”
I looked at her quizzically. “Hah? We ate them! What else?”
She gasped. “I didn’t mean for you to eat them! it was a joke!”
(Sigh) Look. Where I come from, Spam is no joke.
After enduring snickering at my local-style sack lunches, I took a tray full of Spam musubi to a faculty social function. Then I stepped back and watched to see who would partake, because this was my methodology for cultivating friendships.
You there, making a face and wrinkling your nose, see you around. But you here, nibbling on our island delight … what are you doing Spring break … want to come to Hawaii?
Continental disdain for Spam has always puzzled me, because my beloved meat-in-a-can originated there in 1937, in Minnesota. And not by some fly-by-night sketchy meat processor, but by Hormel, the all-American company also famous for Planters, Jennie-O and Dinty Moore Stew.
Even though the Spam recipe is a trade secret, its name comes from “spiced ham,” and that’s good enough for me.
Spam came to Hawaii during World War II as a substitute for fresh meat, which was difficult to distribute to the soldiers stationed here. Locals quickly embraced this protein in a tin and turned it into Spam fried rice, Spam saimin, that holiday special baked glazed Spam, and many more ‘onolicious dishes.
I will assume those on the continent also consumed Spam to supplement meager diets during the war, and yet, given their current haughty attitude, many mainlanders must have returned to old butchered stand-bys soon after. But to this day, we in Hawaii continue to do our patriotic duty to support that venerable American company that fed the troops in time of need.
Today, Spam is a favorite not only in Hawaii and Guam, but the Philippines, Okinawa and other Pacific Islands impacted by World War II.
So, the next time someone turns up their nose at that divine and luscious pale pink brick, remind them that in addition to pledging allegiance and flying the red, white and blue, they should eat more spiced ham.
Spam, we salute you!
Rochelle delaCruz was born in Hilo, graduated from Hilo High School, then left to go to college. After teaching for 30 years in Seattle, Wash., she retired and returned home to Hawaii. She welcomes your comments at rainysideview@gmail.com. Her column is published the first Monday of each month.
