If you love her, buy her Spoon Food

Sande Friedman is (one) a kick-ass chick and (two) a hell of a budding music and fashion journalist.  Here she shares with us her first food memory.  And for the love of god, would someone please buy this girl some Spoon Food.


Some kids remember the horrors of being forced to finish dinner plate after dinner plate full of vegetables. Others remember yakking from too much Halloween candy or birthday cake – those special occasions when sugar over-consumption was not only tolerated, but encouraged. The first food memory for many of us is usually one of vegetable disgust or sickeningly sweet gorging. Mine revolves around jelly.

Vacations are just as epic as holidays to me, and as a child we had very rich and fancy relatives with an equally rich and fancy summer home right on Lake Michigan. Jet skis, boats, and trips to Macanau Island to buy fudge and sticky sweet fruit preserves from the American Spoon Food company.

All praise the American Spoon – thankfully still in existence. After my first pieces of toast smothered in preserves at what must have been the ripe age of 7, I dreamed more vividly about vacation breakfasts than I did about the actual vacations. Widely available in North Michigan, the natural and special Spoon Foods were N/A in my native New Jersey. Nowhere to be found were the little tiny chain shops with a jelly bar in the center of the store: an island with sample crackers and mini-spoons to slather on the flavors of the week (I was never good at limiting myself to one sample either, still a problem to this day).

The jars that made it back to the house were the real kickers. Never will I forget how much everyone made fun of me for trying to pile a whole jar of blackberry jam onto one piece of bread. It was like a race to the bottom of the jar anytime I got my hands on one.

The way I look forward to clothing catalogs and new magazines now were the way I lurked the mail for Spoon Food catalogs then. Finding out there was some new boysenberry or cherry-blackberry jam was all the excitement my developing brain could handle. My mother would have jars of jelly and crackers shipped to our house to appease me rather than just do the normal thing and buy an alternative at the grocery store. Every time I get mad at her now, someone should probably remind me of that.


We stopped vacationing pretty much altogether by the time I was in high school, and I couldn’t pinpoint the last time one of those jelly boxes came to the doorstep. My last taste of the stuff is a long gone memory, replaced by smashing blackberries onto my toast or just buying whatever I find on sale that looks even remotely interesting.


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