The Condiments of My Childhood

As a mid-range Generation Xer, I have few fond memories of food, especially foods I consumed between 1981 and 1998.

I realize that’s a large time-frame, but I’m pretty sure I can say with complete confidence that most of what I consumed would not be considered as food, per se, by today’s standards.

In fact, some of what I consumed would now be considered a high-risk environmental hazard.

Mostly the condiments.

Well… especially the condiments.

In order for this story to make sense for all of us, I have grouped my condiment exploration similar to the way art styles are defined.

And much like art styles, there is some overlap.  And much like real art, some items will defy any sort of description.

The Ends With “Z” Period

My culinary play with condiments begins with Cheese Whiz, a thick aerosol container that sprays a substance not quite like cheese onto any food group of your choosing.

Chicken-In-A-Biskit crackers are the classicists choice for this ozone-depleting dairy product, but the more avant-garde of the elementary school crowd during the early 80′s branched out into found object territory pretty quickly.

My contribution to this field was Cheese Whiz on a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup— a feat that combines two foods that are not foods into one horrifyingly good combination.

But, like all good and strange things, my love of Cheese Whiz came to an end when, in the midst of a fight with one of my best friends, she shoved the nozzle of my beloved condiment up my nose, and hit the button.  Full blast.

Colors Native To The Nuclear Age Period

I entered my own version of a single-color focused condiment age in 4th Grade when I decided that mustard, French’s Yellow Mustard, belonged on everything, everywhere.

My brief flirtations with Kikkoman Soy Sauce left me feeling listless about condiments as a culinary art form, yet French’s Yellow Mustard put a bright spot of joy— bland, spice-free, super-yellow joy, on every edible it touched.

I encouraged an artistic temperament around my eating habits, which annoyed my mother to no end.  She had gone to great lengths to make sure I had a well-developed palate, and cooked a great many dishes from scratch to entice and train me from a very early age.

The French’s Yellow Mustard years were hard on my mother.

I ate a lot of hot dogs during the French’s Yellow Mustard phase.

And only now do I see that my hot dog consumption was a commentary on the increasing homogeneity of the American experience.  A form of Interpretive Eating.

As anyone with a true artistic temperament knows, what zigs, will zag.  I left mustard behind for the delights of local cuisine.

We now enter the darkest phase of my seasoning life.

The Pre-Hypertensive Period

Mustard lost all color for me one day as I entered adolescence.  At the same time, I discovered the pleasures of Sal-Limon, chamoy, and Chinese Candy.

Technically, all three of the above items are more of a savory dessert, originating from Mexico and the American states that border Mexico.  (So, the word “Chinese” in this case, references a type of dried plum, not a Chinese food.  Okay?)

Children of all ages loved these sugary and salty treats.

We, the outre adventurers of the junior high set, added these salted and dried items to our standard palate of school enchiladas, sandwiches, and still-frozen-in-the-middle pizza.

I sought to shock my peers and surrounding adults with my intense palate.  I went a step further, adding chamoy to chocolate ice cream and Sal-Limon to bags of M&M’s.

It was my stomach that rebelled against my revolutionary culinary tactics.  A bout with the flu felled me, and turned me from the condiments that had served me so well.

I never picked up these specific tools again.

Now, I, a growing condiment artiste, was cast adrift into a high school where mayonnaise was left in bowls with spoons for all to consume.  Snob that I had become, I turned away from the display of gelatenous goo with a dramatic sigh.

And I descended into darkness no condiment could cover.

We come now to the final chapter.  The triumphant return.

The Grainy Internationale Period

It took the first year of college to help me find my footing again.

I discovered the unsubtle pleasures of wasabi paste late in high school, but it took some time to find a grocery store that carried the green Japanese horseradish paste.

That same year, flavored mustards came into vogue in fast food restaurants and fusion restaurants across the Continental U.S.

Chutneys abounded with flair, showing up in crepes, dazzling droll salad vinaigrettes with it’s mix of salty and sweet, and its overt tangy aftertaste.

Honey barbecue spread like sparkly fire through much of the South and Southwest, reintroducing the middle-class to chicken in a display of pre-diabetic bravura.

A full palate and compliment of reductions and sauces based on the aforementioned condiment themes bloomed on haute plates on both coasts.

And, to complete this picture, retro-flavorings were also reintroduced into Americana.

Cheese-Whiz was back as a favorite at non-P.C. trailer-theme parties.

French’s Yellow Mustard made frequent appearances on TV cooking shows.

Even the Mexican-American treats of a collective childhood were reinterpreted as an ironic garnish.  Chinese Candy could raise its head with pride when it rose to prominence as a cocktail topper.

As each of these condiments of my childhood arose and found new methodologies, I discovered one… last… new… frontier.

And what is that final step, you ask?

Do you really want to know?

Okay.  Here it is:

I developed a broad range of food allergies and can’t eat most of that stuff to this day.

Although accidental, and tragic, it is my penultimate culinary statement:

Condiment Nihilism.

(Exeunt omnes.)  (Blackout.) 

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