twinkies winking
The summer of 1956 was a watershed summer in which I was presented with the first of my nisionot (nisionos for yeshivisha pronunciation) about how deep my commitment to Jewish observance was. Not that I want to compare myself to Abraham’s 10 nisionos, which he passed with flying colors, however, and unlike Father Abraham, this first one was a real challenge because of the sheer willpower that was required of me. Generations of Jews before me who martyred their lives “leshem shamayim” (for heaven’s sake) expected me to resist the urge to eat a Twinkie knowing it was my God-given right and that of all Americans. child to snack on them. Some other products at the time, that hadn’t had hechsherim, could get away with it, because everyone knew the products were kosher, like Hershey’s Chocolate. Even the name sounded Jewish. Twinkies, on the other hand, sounded American, looked treif, and was in fact glatt treif. There was no way around this, no rationalization, no excuse. It was universally accepted that they were treif. There was no dissent on this, not even from the most modern of the rabbis at Albany Park. The animal fat in the ingredients, which undoubtedly made them irresistible, would hardly come from a kosher slaughtered bovine creation.
He was only nine years old, and like every other cosmopolitan kid living in Albany Park, he had been to the local soda shops, newsstands, and grocery stores where Twinkies were readily available. They were always placed next to the other iconic Hostess product: Hostess Cupcakes. But it was always the Twinkies that winked at me as I stood a foot away looking at the packaging, wondering what that first bite would taste like. Truth be told, Hostess Cupcakes never tempted me. They always looked plastic, too perfect, too smooth, evenly lined with their paper liner, never, ever spilling, like sumptuous homemade cupcakes: bumpy, textured, and too bulky for the paper liner. Every time I saw a Twinkie, my mouth watered and I wondered why it had to be treif. As difficult as it was to get away from the food stall where they were so prominently displayed, it was not impossible. Avraham Avenu would have been proud, though he often asked me which of his ten tests would have been comparable. Perhaps it would have been number 5 according to Rashi or number 3 according to the Rambam. Either way, I felt like my commitment was up there.
To my horror, the real test didn’t come until I went to Eugene Field day camp in the summer of 1956 with my secular Jewish neighbor Jerry, who lived a few doors down. We used to bike around the neighborhood, but this would be our first excursion across Lawrence Ave down the Ridgeway toward Foster, where the farmhouse was located. Lunchtime on that first day in camp was the nisayon of my life, which I would rank there with Avraham number 10 according to Rashi and Rambam. On a park bench, my friend devoured his salami sandwich with a carton of milk, which looked infinitely more appealing than my tuna sandwich. However, the shock came when Jerry pulled a pack of Twinkies out of his brown bag. I looked at my dessert, which was a measly pair of homemade chocolate chip cookies wrapped in crumpled aluminum foil that looked like it had been recycled within the last month. Then I looked over at Jerry’s Twinkies and my mouth watered. He offered me one of his Twinkies and for a moment that seemed like forever I was tempted to reach out when Adam did and bit into the forbidden fruit. It was a painful moment, but in my youthful naivety I understood that if I couldn’t resist this great test, I could never resist any future temptation.
The summer of 1956 was certainly a turning point, a fitting introduction to the world in which options are presented and decisions are made. I’ve never had a Twinkie, but the irony of it all is that I was upset by the news last week that the Hostess Company filed for bankruptcy and the future of the Twinkies product is uncertain. My entire conscious life so far has been accompanied by certain pointers that have provided me with comfort zones as I move through life. These iconic images and products that have accompanied me throughout my journey are slowly disappearing, which, by the way, casts a shadow over my own mortality. From the time I was nine years old to today, I could walk into any supermarket anywhere in America and look at a pack of Twinkies. It makes me feel good, comfortable and safe even though I’ve never eaten one. It is something like the Israeli meat product “loof” (equivalent to American spam), a staple of army field rations that has existed since before the establishment of the state, giving it iconic status. That too has disappeared much to my dismay. Perhaps one could say what Israelis feel about the loss of loof that I feel about the imminent demise of the Twinkies from the American culinary scene. America without Twinkies is like Israel without loof. It just can’t be!