Give Me Cheez Whiz Or Give Me Death
2005

I was in the grocery store a few days ago and saw a woman buy a jar of Cheez Whiz. Cheez Whiz! I fell into a sort of trance as I watched it ride along the conveyer belt toward the store clerk. Cheez Whiz, Cheez Whiz, how long has it been since I had Cheez Whiz?

I used to love the stuff as a kid. Spread into the groove of crunchy fresh celery was the best way to eat it. So why don’t I eat it now? The answer is simple. I’m elitist and pretentious. The recognition of this fact in that moment in the checkout line was both immediate and very powerful. I felt so ashamed of myself.

I looked down into my own shopping cart. Organic milk in a glass bottle, a container of tofu, a bag of raw cashews, Starbucks whole bean coffee. All the signs pointed to the simple truth. Someone please wake me up from my Ralph Lauren lifestyle.

When did I become this way? I was awash with memories of a simpler time. . . the early 80’s. I knew nothing of biscotti, au jus, baguette, or cafe au lait. Water came out of a tap and not a bottle. Buying sheets did not involve thread counts or name brands. They were just sheets. Things so meaningless that we would think nothing to cut circles in them and make ourselves into ghosts on Halloween. Now my sheets (yes, Ralph Lauren) are coordinated with my comforter, accent rugs, and even the paint on the wall. Barf-o-rama.

We’re so programmed nowadays to go for the gourmet, the designer, the high class, the haute. It’s insidious. Someone get me a Fluffernutter. Someone get me a Twinkie. How about a sandwich that’s made on bread and not “panne”. Oy, it’s time to relinquish this sense of self-importance that we’ve been sold. Do we really think that superior grocery items and household accessories make us superior as people?

Yes, we do. Okay, I’ll be bold. I do. I really do think that having gorgeous food in my refrigerator makes me better than you. And I completely believe that having Ralph Lauren paint that costs double what the store brand costs makes me a better person.

I decided to try to combat my barfiness, however, for an entire week. I bought Folgers coffee in a can. I forwent La Brea Bakery bread for something squishy, sliced, and in a plastic wrapper. I refused any food item written in a foreign language or in loopy cursive writing.

My week culminated in babysitting for a friend’s toddler. And it happened that I came to blows over all this with a two-year-old. Even as I write this, the melody of Yankee Doodle comes to mind, because the sad truth is that Yankee Doodle can no longer stick a feather in his hat and call it macaroni. Why, you might ask? Because macaroni is quickly going the way of dinosaurs. It ceases to exist. At least in upper-middle American liberal cultured well read politically correct keep-up-with-the-Joneses households. I asked this chubby beautiful curly-headed child I had in my charge if he wanted some macaroni and red sauce for supper. I held up a box of designer cavatappi. He looked perplexed. “That's pasta, silly.”

I huffed, shrugged my shoulders, and said, "I’m not being silly. It's macaroni, little boy. Trust me. When I was your age, there was no ‘pasta’. There was spaghetti, macaroni, or noodles. So, just for fun, tonight we’re not gonna eat pasta. We’re gonna eat macaroni. It’ll be like time traveling. It’ll be an adventure.”

He burst into tears. I want pasta!! he demanded. But I wasn't budging. I don't care what the label said. And I didn't care what the screaming toddler was saying. “Cavatappi” is macaroni that costs twice as much. I was going to heal the American soul, if only one 2-year-old at a time. Macaroni, little boy! Macaroni!

I saddled him into my SUV and we went on a little field trip. Since he wouldn’t touch the macaroni I made him, I decided to give him something he was going to truly love. Marshmallow Fluff on Wonder Bread, Yoo-hoo, Cheez Whiz on celery, hot dogs and canned beans, and my personal favorite from Girl Scout camp, ants on a log.

We were sitting at the kitchen table chowing down on all this crappola (that means “junk food” in high Italian), feeling quite happy and middle American when his mother, my friend, walked in. I’d never seen her looking quite that way, with her Ralph Lauren leather uppers coupled with a painfully astonished, scrunched up expression.

“What on earth . . . are you feeding my (huff, huff) son?!!”

The little cherub, with a face like a little piggy eating from a trough, looked up. “It’s called Cheez Whiz, Mummy! It’s yummy!”

My friend looked at me with piercing eyes. I swore she could’ve burned holes in my skull with her expression as she heaved out her angry words . . . “I can’t believe you taught him that WORD!!!!!”





Tell me what you think. Do YOU have high class grocery items in YOUR refrigerator, and just how elite do they make YOU feel? Write me at jacooz@bimbopolitics.com.

For yet another installation of the World According to Jacoozey, check out www.scribbyworld.com this week where Jacooz appears as a guest columnist with a distinctly Berkshire flair.