Why I Love Wonder Bread



Why I Love Wonder Bread
by Antenna Wilde
12/3/09

It’s like biting a flour-cloud. Softer than a marshmallow, yet strong enough to hold the turkey in place; leftover Thanksgiving turkey with lettuce, tomato and mayo… a pinch of salt and pepper. Yes, Wonder Bread, that malleable-fluff-bread, complaisant actor in the movie called, Sandwich! Where would we be without it, as a society, a culture, a people?

I remember as a child, my father bringing it home, held soft and safe under his arm like a fragile Christmas package. My mother, however, was aghast. She said it had no fiber, no nutrients, no validity. My father flipped the plastic bundle around, red-white-and-blue, revealing the vitamin-enriched “fact” sheet: Vitamin D, calcium and Riboflavin; Iron, Thiamine and Niacin.
“Hogwash!” she cried, “It’s unnatural!”

Mother was right, it is unnatural, and father was right, it is vitamin enriched, but they’re both wrong. They missed the point, which is that, Wonder Bread is not made to be healthy, or natural, or even delicious. Wonder Bread is made to be a carrier for deliciousness, the altar upon which we lay our sacred fillings and processed deli meats. In essence, it merely amplifies that which you put within it. On its own, Wonder Bread isn’t that great, but add a mere slice of American cheese—or any kind of cheese you like—between two of those fluffy white pillows of Wonder, grill it with butter in a frying pan, well… I’ll be right back!

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Banana Leaf Tamales: A Letter to the Chef


Dear Chef,

I tried very hard to control myself, managing only to leave the house before devouring all but the last of those delicious, banana leaf tamales, which only got better as they sat in the fridge overnight, longing to be consumed. I even tried to eat the leaves themselves, as they were calling to me, or perhaps it was the hungry gnome who lives in my stomach (he also likes, and requires, tequila). Please tell me what corn paste, chicken/chili foodstuffs you need to create more and I will buy them immediately. I know you are busy this weekend, but sometime soon thereafter—and before I wrap a towel around my head and explosives to my chest, demanding tamales in retribution for… uh… for a lack of tamales, that is—could we make more? And when I say could I mean, really, God damn it, we need more fucking tamales! —sorry, that was the gnome, not me. ANY hoo, back to the tamales; would it be possible to make a few more, when convenient; and by more I mean many, and by convenient I mean, as in ASAP? I could be an assistant of some kind, in a bartender-like capacity perhaps, or at least a dishwasher thereafter. We could videotape the event and post it on uTube, and then, when you’re famous like Martha Stewart (minus the whole tax-evasion/sent-to-jail “thing”) I could receive a stipend for my services, in the form of seven tamales a day, for example. Why seven? I don’t know, seven came to mind… but then again, how about nine? Alright, great, it’s settled: nine tamales in exchange for a uTube video of you making tamales,—and of me then eating the tamales, I think that would be fabulous. I’m pretty sure there’s a Top Chef on the horizon here… so then, what else… there was something else… did I mention the tamales?

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