SPAM

I laugh uproariously at the amusing song

by Cheryl Wheeler, about the cruise ship

that got stranded out at sea, and

all they had to eat for a couple of weeks

was pop tarts and spam, airlifted from the mainland.

No one, from the most accomplished chef in a French cafe,

to the short-order cook in the greasy spoon, could make

a fine meal out of those ingredients. Not enough bechemel

sauce in all of France to dress up that awful can-shaped

substance. Yet when we were young, starving on a

cold-water farm in the Ozarks, spam was the great luxury.

We all waited, stair steps from four to twenty, eager for our slice,

browned around the edges from the skillet, and delicious.