SPAM, SPAM SPAM, SPAM

Christopher Corbett discovers many

unusual and unexpected uses for tinned pork shoulders and ham

Mower County, Minnesota MONTY PYTHON'S Flying Circus immor- talised Spam (`Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam. Lovely Spam! Wonderful Spam!'). Mar- garet Thatcher is a Spam fan. The British are a Spam-eating people. Those are only three of the proud Spamfacts that you will learn when you visit Austin, Minnesota, the birthplace of Spam.

I headed there last year after the 5 bil- lionth can of Spam rolled off the assembly line at Hormel Foods Corporation. The good folk in the capital of Spain country have been celebrating this momentous occasion and saluting the canned pork shoulder that brings so much fame and no little prosperity to this flat piece of farm- land where Minnesota meets Iowa, Big Spam country. The Spamjam, also known as the Spamboree or the Spamfest, is the Oberammergau of pork, the annual homage to Hormel and hogs and the hard- working men and women of Mower Coun- ty who make it all possible.

The sky here is Hormel blue, the sun is Hormel gold. This is the land of Luther- ans, out beyond the reach of caffes latte and arugula. Spam, and Spam alone is the force that through the cornfields drives the economy. It is the staff of life. I should probably also tell you that the name Spam (a registered trademark which the Hormel folk protect and defend ferociously) must never be taken in vain. Spam, which stands for for spiced ham, is made from pork shoulders and ham.

And the canning of the 5 billionth con- tainer of Spam (enough cans of the stuff to circle the globe 1272 times, claim the glee- ful Spam fact-checkers!) was just about the biggest thing to happen here since George Hormel II upped and married Leslie Caron, a little old French gal, back in 1952. Now that was big news in Mower County.

The marriage didn't last, but Spam has. It is now in its 58th year, the all-purpose equiv- alent of human dog food with the shelf-life of high-grade plutonium, beloved by diners from Minnesota to the Marshall Islands.

Alas, the British, who picked up a taste for Spam during the second world war, are no longer the leading Spam-eaters outside the United States. According to the keepers of Spamfacts at Hormel, the British ate 440,035 cases of Spain last year — that's 5,280,420 cans. The Koreans ate the most Spam. 'In Korea, it's worshipped,' says Kris Carroll, a spokeswoman for Hormel. 'It's often given as a gift. It's a very nice gift.'

Spain is 'an American icon', according to the folk at Hormel, with a 99 per cent recognition rate (in the company of Coca- Cola). With annual sales approaching $3 billion, even primitive people know the Fortune 500 firm. In fact, Paul Theroux, the happy wanderer, reports in his book on the South Pacific that he found folk down there on some of the remotest islands wolf- ing down Spam where a generation ago they were eating each other.

But cannibalism is not the issue in south- ern Minnesota, for not only do folk make Spam in Austin, they genuinely enjoy the stuff in all its many and varied forms (includ- ing Spam Lite, a clever marketing ploy said to be aimed at diet-conscious yuppies).

In Big Spam country we are never far from pork products, or Mr Pig himself. Truckloads of the unlucky little squealers were lined up over by the interstate while the drivers took a coffee break awaiting their appointment with destiny and George Hormel's merry men and women down at the Spamworks.

Alas, although I presented myself at the Spamworks eager for a tour of its wonders, I was turned away politely by a young man who invoked 'regulations'. I had to settle for a stop by the Games People Play store at the Oak View Mall, where a lovely selec- tion of Spam-inspired gift items and mem- orabilia could be had. The 40-inch blue-and-gold Spam wind-sock, the Spam T-shirts, coffee mugs, watches, golf balls, the Spam version of the Swiss Army knife, the Spam boxer shorts, sweat-shirts and baseball hats — I bought a lot of stuff.

Pigs are a kind of totem or fetish here- abouts and big news, too. Why, even the city slickers up at the Minneapolis Star Tribune chose prominently to display a bizarre tale of a Wisconsin farmer plagued by pig-steal- ing bald eagles, a fine confusion of local and national mythic emblems. The announcers on all the country-and-western radio sta- tions talk hogs: hog futures and hog pasts, hog prices and hog health, s0000000ey. The rest of America is riveted by the adventures of O.J. Simpson, but they are still talking pork in Mower County.

The Spamjam is not Austin's only claim to fame, no, sirree, the National Barrow Show is held here too, and if you don't know what a barrow is, well, sir, I would not show my face down at the Sons of Nor- way Hall or apply to join the Mower Coun- ty Porkettes, the ladies' pork auxiliary (`The Porkettes Promote Pork').

The actual Spamjam, as they called it last year, is held on a Saturday on the outskirts of Austin, on the shores of East Side Lake. Just drive out past Holy Cross Lutheran Church and when you see the giant Spam can, the one that's the size of an airship and looks like a spaceship, you're getting warm.

The big Spam breakfast, only $2, gets underway early and my advice to the trav- eller is to be on time. They rise early in Big Spam country and they like a big breakfast. The queue was already long at 7.30 a.m. for a fireman's feed of scrambled eggs, pan- cakes and sizzling slices of Spam.

Everybody seemed to know everybody, so not wishing to be left out, I joined retired Spam-maker Warren Rector and his wife, Lorene, and talked a little Spam and ate a little Spam. Warren and Lorene were good people. They were kind to strangers (me). They said grace unashamedly before they forked into the Spam and they seemed to be happy.

Elsewhere about the Spamboree, the fishing derby was underway, although the likelihood of catching much in East Side Lake was in doubt. It was unclear whether Spam was actually being used as bait, and not wanting to attract further attention to myself as an out-of-towner unfamiliar with the ways of Mower County, I did not ask.

The Spamjam is pretty much of a local event. Folk came up from Lyle and Myrtle and Floyd and Joice and even some foot- loose types drove all the way down from Owatonna. But mostly the Spamfest is an Austin thing. Sixty gourmet chefs had faced off in a Spam recipe contest, produc- ing an interesting selection of finalists, including Spamghetti pie, peppery Spam bites, Shanghai Spam salad, Norwegian La Spamgna, Shan-gri-la Spam balls, Dip-o- Spam, Spam puppies, Pennsylvania Dutch Spam grillwich, hearty Spam winter soup and my favourite, creamy Spam de-lite pie. One home-maker had eviscerated a pineapple and stuffed it full of Spam. Sev- eral people in wheelchairs and walkers were on hand, attesting to the healing powers of Spam.

But what's a Spamboree without fun and games? Children of all ages, as they call them, were enjoying the Spam bean-bag throw, Spam gelatin jump, the Spam suds crawl. Spam can-ring toss and Spam human bowling (Austin's equivalent of midget-tossing) and the Spam radar ball throw, which I think would have been more fun if you'd tried to see how fast someone could throw a hunk of Spam. But then I'm from back East.

The high point of the Spamfest is the mid-day concert by the Spamettes. The Spamettes are not your run-of-the-mill girl group. They sing only of Spam. 'Stop in the Name of Spam' (that's a little number they worked up from The Supremes). Or Spamelot (a la Robert Goulet). They sing Spam opera and they play a Spam polka. They do Spam country-and-western music, `Stand by Your Spam' (a la Tammy Winette). Or, 'Mr Spamman' (in the style of the Mills Brothers). After I heard 'Spam is a Many-Splendoured Thing' I was ready to throw my clothing at the stage, but that sort of behaviour is frowned on in Big Spam country.

Most people in Austin are familiar with the Spamettes They sing along with all the songs. When those gals launch into:

Spam is a many-splendoured thing, when its fragrance flows beneath your nose makes your heart go zing. Spam is nature's way of giving pigs a reason to be living . . .

the crowd joins in.

The Spamettes wear Spam outfits, dark blue Spam T-shirts emblazoned with the gold letters Spam. They wear yellow rub- ber kitchen gloves on their hands, too, for no particular reason. And let me tell you, they look fabulous.

The Spamettes include core-group members Sonia Larson (she does most of the talking), Denise Condon (she does most of the giggling), Nancy Blackwell and Dori Schou (on piano), and for back-up Kathi Larson (on accordion) — nota bene: every third person in Minnesota is named Larson and none of them is said to be related — and Sue Radloff on bass. Most musicians pay their dues working the bar scene, but these gals got their start at cooking shows. They wrote all the songs, and are even fooling around with 'Nearer, My Spam, to Thee', a pork shoulder spiri- tual, and a Spam Gregorian chant.

After getting to hang with the Spamettes my next biggest thrill was a personal inter- view with Andriette Wickstrom, whom the devout believe may be the biggest private collector of Spam memorabilia in the Free World. Miss Wickstrom had motored all the way from Storm Lake, Iowa, for this occa- sion. She'd gone hog wild at the Spam memorabilia booth, purchasing a whooping $155 worth of lovely mementos.

I had espied Miss Wickstrom earlier in the day, taking her for just another Spam- crazed local gal. As it turned out, Miss Wickstrom's devotion to Spam is genuine. She won the women's Spam road race! 'I planned to come to this,' she explained, `this is the highlight of my life.'

I caution the visitor to keep in mind that although Hormel has developed Spam- Lite, they don't make light of Spam here. Spam is no laughing matter. Credited with everything from winning the second world war to bringing communism to its knees, to curing polio, Spam is a serious subject. There is also the little matter of ortho- doxy. Austin holds the Spam festival. Don't accept any substitutes. Yes, there are other folk holding Spam festivals and they are going to have to answer to God and George Hormel for it (in Mower County many believe God and George Hormel are the same person). The world has lived through periods when there were two popes sitting. And so it is with pre- tenders to the title of Spamfest. What sep- arates the Spamboree from other Spamfests is the seriousness of purpose. In other places philistines and wicked sinners make sport of Spam.

They do things with Spam that are plainly wrong. Why, God help us, there have been stories coming back here of people doing things like, like, carving Spam. By God, when they hear that kind of thing down at George Hormel it sets their pork shoulders a-twitching. In Austin they do not have Spam-carving contests. Carving Spam is morally wrong. It's sacri- lege. It's wasteful. Why, it's immoral.

`We'd rather eat it than carve it,' says Jeff Grey, a senior brand-marketing manager at Hormel, who speaks like an elder in the Church of the Risen Spam on these matters.

Of course these folk aren't completely serious. Heck, we're talking pork shoulders here. They've got a sense of humour. They know what the Spamfest is all about. Like they say up at the Hormel plant, 'Don't miss the one day of the year when you get to play with your food.'