SPAM. A lot.

My family has a love affair with SPAM. There isn’t a single memory of a childhood meal that does not somehow involve it. No occasion was too casual — or too fancy — for a slab of that porky goodness. I remember popping open my vinyl Care Bear lunchbox to find room-temperature SPAM in between two slices of wilting white bread. 

At the same time, it wasn’t unusual to see slices of SPAM gracing one side of the Thanksgiving table, all gussied up with pineapple and maraschino cherries. Nor was it surprising to find it mixed into another dish like pancit canton — Filipino lo mein noodles — at the other end. 

I am certain it was the first meat my baby sister ever tried. Curious about its intriguing list of ingredients, my cousin once called the SPAM hotline (yes, such a thing existed in the 80s) to inquire about the exact details of the meat mixture. 

Whether it lurked in the background, a meat beacon beckoning from the pantry shelf, or as the main attraction on the kitchen table — shiny and proud like the Statue of Liberty — SPAM was as ubiquitous in my culture as that other all-American food icon, the mighty hamburger, might have been to yours.

If you think Lady Liberty is an odd metaphor for a canned meat product, let me take you back to World War II: War raged in the Pacific, and while the Philippines was still an American territory, it had been invaded by Japan. American soldiers in the field needed food that didn’t need refrigeration and could be eaten with just the crack of the can. Bam! SPAM! 

Still a relatively new invention, SPAM quickly became a culinary asset at a time when salt and preservatives were required for the safe transport and consumption of meat by the soldiers. And, as Filipinos fought alongside Americans, those comrades in arms broke bread together, and in this case, cracked open more than a few cans of meat. Remember, after the war, it was also an imported treat. 

For the average person today, SPAM might seem like junk food at worst and an acquired taste at best. But for Filipinos, SPAM has transcended being a World War II delicacy to become a staple in the diet. It even comes in a wider array of flavors, including teriyaki, pumpkin spice, and Tocino, a salty-sweet breakfast meat much like a sweeter bacon creating a one-two punch of Filipino and American influences. 

SPAM is a favorite gift during the holidays as well, often serving as the topper of gift basket food towers, shining bright as any star atop a Christmas tree. Thanks to its can, salt content, and preservatives, SPAM can withstand both family dinners and hurricanes with equal dignity.

For Filipino-Americans, our relationship with SPAM is... complicated. On one hand, it is a historical relic — a culinary time-capsule of how far American influence spread in the Philippines. It’s a colonial mentality that pre-disposed Filipinos to embrace it like pate simply because it was American. 

On the other hand, SPAM is as ubiquitous and as indulgent as any hot dog, and its persistence in our nostalgia overrides the problematic way in which that taste for it originated. It is a loaded cultural symbol, and we go through times of wanting to feast on it for days or preferring a different, much simpler meat altogether. Ultimately, holding on to SPAM means embracing a time when we were still in it together — and holding on to the hope that not only can mealtime be better, but that life can be better too. 

SPAM will always remind me most of my dear Lola (grandmother in my native language of Tagalog) frying up breakfast in the morning while wearing her cocktail rings. Lola was much like her preferred food product: salty and resilient. She could make your lips pucker in delight or distress, and she had built up a toughness built from withstanding bombs falling out of the sky. 

“My Lola never forgot because she always remembered what it was to have less or nothing at all. And looking back, for me the ultimate privilege was Lola being able to cook for me in the first place, in a brand new country. ”

I can still hear the crackle and pop of garlic sizzling in a pan, which she would fold into soft white rice, creating a holy mountain crowned with a slice of seared SPAM and a fried egg. Reminiscent of Hawaii’s own Loco Moco, SPAMsilog was the breakfast of children’s dreams, especially when you busted into the egg and the yolk flowed down the volcano of rice like lava. 

At six, I balked at veggies and reveled in being a carnivore — just like my favorite dinosaurs. My Lola didn’t care what I ate, only that I ate, and I think we forget sometimes that having food, any food at all, is a privilege. Even if it’s SPAM. My Lola never forgot because she always remembered what it was to have less or nothing at all. And looking back, for me the ultimate privilege was Lola being able to cook for me in the first place, in a brand new country. 

The seemingly simple act of an immigrant family who survived war being able to eat breakfast in the country where your favorite food originated… there is no measure for how many miracles exist in that one moment. Lola ran from war, and my blessing now is that my family can finally stop running.