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Remembrance of things Spam

(post, John Dryzga)

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The simple occurance of the smell of Madelines wafting past his nose launched Proust into a reverie that lasted for volumes. The news about the uptick in Spam sales immediately brought me back to being a little boy, listening to one of my father's WWII stories.

My father served in the Navy during the war. He spent most of the war in the Pacific but not on a warship. Instead, he repaired the ships that were damaged in battle. When he was close to the frontlines, he and his fellow sailors ate well. When the front moved, the good food moved with it. This left my father only such delicacies as powdered eggs and Spam for sustanance. Spam for breakfast, Spam for lunch, and Spam for dinner. Maybe even a nice Spam cake for dessert. My poor father was living a Monty Python sketch thiry years before it was written.

In the midst of this Spam-fueled puragatory, a package from home arrived. My father tore into the package to see what little taste of home his mother lovingly sent him. Perhaps something from his father's butcher shop? Some candy or some other sweet? Oh no. There staring back at him mockingly was a can of Spam. My grandmother thought that this ham in a can would be an incredible treat for my dad. My father just sighed, put the Spam on a shelf, and went back to thinking about the sights, smells and tastes of home.

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