Stacy Shaw
If there is anything science fiction movies have taught us, it is that though end of the world might be nigh, but there is one thing we can always count on, Twinkies will live on. Now we find it is untrue, not just because Twinkies have a shelf-life (I learned that from “Zombieland,” a heartfelt zombie comedy, I highly recommend); but because Twinkies will be closing their doors as Hostess is going out of business. As Americans we’ve always had a bittersweet relationship with the Twinkie, not because there is anything bitter about them. It is just that in a time of eating healthy, they rank up there with pink speckled donuts, drooling out from Homer Simpson’s lips. Nothing says, “I’ve given up on ever being healthy, looking good or gaining the respect of the popular people,” (you know it still exists, even as we’re pushing middle age) as delighting in a Twinkie. Even my friend, who is the expert at redeeming any sinful food item, “ice-cream has calcium, apple pie includes servings of fruit, chocolate is a stress reliever,” would struggle to find the half-baked sophistry needed to redeem the Twinkie. It is not the cupcake, quaint and boutiquey and lately bouigois. It is not French. It is not exotic or made with natural ingredients, organic, nor does it have a miniscule carbon footprint. It is neither soy, nor glutten free. It is not sold at Starbucks or Whole Foods. Yet, maybe that is where some of its appeal lies. It was found in our lunch boxes before mom knew better and packed our lunches with locally grown carrots and kale. It is resides at 7-11 and convenient stores all over the country, where it is always there waiting for us waiting like a childhood home we can no longer go home to. No matter where across this great nation we may roam, like Kerokac seeking America; or, perhaps more tragically like Willy Loman, sleepily driving off the road in his dinosaur Studabaker: there somewhere in the back of our consciousness exists the Twinkie, waiting for us, along with some beef jerky and a bottle of cheap wine. “Where have all the Twinkies gone?” we will ask some day soon, like they are the mighty Buffalo, or super-sized meals at McDonalds. One day, as we scan the aisles of the convenient store that appear healthy and fresh, right out of a Children’s book illustration proposed by Jamie Oliver or Michael Bloomsburg, we may sigh, and think “Why? Why?”
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Hostess Twinkie, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! For Twinkies go to the very depths of what it means to be an American. To have the will, nay, freedom to eat something that has no redeeming value- though, it arguably may not even be a food. Therein lies the delight! To swallow it whole: should we choose, taunting diabetes, laughing in the face of morbid obesity. Proclaiming, “One day, perhaps, I shall die. But today, I live! Today, I am alive!” It was different long ago. I’m fairly certain when Twinkies were first rolled off their assembly lines they were not the height of irony. They were a great American achievement, like sliced bread or oil refineries. Now, for the first time ever, it was possible for Mom to leave the kitchen. No longer did she have to bake the American pie- she had Hostess for that. Now, prefab desserts were on every grocery shelf. How wonderful! Get out of the kitchen; get a real life! Here’s your very own cubicle, Mrs. Johnson! I need that report by Friday; I’m going to have to ask you to come in on Saturday, yea..ah… Those days may be over, for better or worse. But please leave us our relics of the past! Do we really need to climb through some hoarders rusty garage with Mike and Frank just to come upon these great treasures? I rue the day!
