‘Warlord Advice’

They’re all fuckin horrid parents….

Based on this image that made me laugh so hard I almost threw up

NEW FRUIT

The bus rumbles along the road with lurching, inconsistent pace; occasionally, the wheels slog over debris in the roadway—and maybe that’s why the blinds remain drawn, covering the windows… so they can say its debris (indefinite)—and send all of them rocking in their seats. Kyungsoo keeps his boots planted firmly with one of his knees resting against the back of the bus’s leather seat and the other stretching into the vehicle’s aisle. The position helps him ground himself, helps him stomach the unceasing restlessness of this sort of journey.

Light spills inside through the front windshield, but it’s faint. The CSHS had sent them out while it was still dark. Maybe they expected that the blinds would go up more quickly, and so they tried for some small mercy. Or perhaps, the thinking was as such: send them out while the night covers it all like a blanket. Then, they cannot turn around immediately. Kyungsoo stews on it, and finally decides that this is the most likely situation.

“Stuck in your head?” Kim Minseok and he have this agreement. He can ask five questions per day cycle—but only three if one of those questions seems like a diagnostic lead-in. More often than not, Minseok ends up with just the three. You can take the man outside of academia but can’t take the academic out of the man? Something like that. “You’ve been staring at the back of the driver’s head for like… an hour now.”

“The blinds are down,” Kyungsoo drawls, glancing over. His eyes ache. When was the last time he blinked? Apparently not recently enough. “What else is there to look at?”

“Me?” Minseok puts his hand under his chin, does something Kyungsoo might admit is vaguely cute with his smile, and flutters his lashes. He’s one of the few members on the base who actually kept their head. Kyungsoo likes to think he did too—but his heart got all jaded while he was focusing on that. He only really has the attention span to keep up with one organ, it would seem. “Your most favorite hyung?” 

A tittering of laugher ripples through the seats closest to them.

Everyone is eavesdropping. Anything is better than thinking about the wreckage.

Kyungsoo shakes his head, hiding his own smile. He’s glad Minseok brings it out in him. Misses smiling more frequently, more unabashedly. But the infection took many things, and those are truthfully the least of all those stolen. “Jungsuk-hyung is my favorite,” he teases, ignoring the mock gasp Minseok gives him. “You’ll have to find someone else to flatter you.”

“There’s no one else I want to tease. You’re too fun,” Minseok quips back.

He’s always quick like that. 

Or, rather, since Kyungsoo’s known him. 

One of the other health workers—Kim Junmyeon, sitting in the front row of the bus—said that Minseok used to be quieter, back before everything. That he metamorphosed, and became someone brighter amidst all the darkness. And maybe that’s why Kyungsoo has a soft spot for him, that he managed to come out born again from all of this, and Kyungsoo wishes with all his might that he could do the same.

The bus lurches, unseating someone a few rows up. 

Kyungsoo flinches, grabs his rifle before it can slide off his lap (even though its unloaded, and the safety’s on).

Minseok reaches for the back of the seat in front of him, steadying himself before he can spill out into the aisle.

Someone throws out a good-natured insult, something to playfully rib at the driver. It sends another ripple of quiet laughter down the length of the bus, except this time neither Kyungsoo nor Minseok join in. They’re quicker to notice a change in mood, and the driver’s shoulders are decidedly more tense than before—their jaw clenched like they’re biting back pain. But, Minseok and he have some tact. They don’t acknowledge the driver, don’t tell the other boys to knock it off, don’t do anything really. It’s better to let the driver keep their horror to themselves, and let the bus load of soldiers and workers laugh because at the end of the day, they’re all going to see some shit. They can do without the tension settling in early.

Minseok turns back to him: “Have you checked our assignment?” He’s lowered his voice again, given them the most privacy they can have in the back of the bus. With the others beginning to talk once more, it’s easier to fall into the drone of it all. “There’s a strawberry farm in the neighborhood, you know. I wonder if we should start there and work our way out. It’s the most likely place to have survivors because of the greenhouses.”

Society collapsed.

With it, everything that had previously required maintaining also went out of service. The electrical grid went down, the water stations went unmanned, and so on and so forth. The country split into hubs, pockets of survivors and functional bases, all with security measures that could keep the infection out. Electricity resumed at some of these camps, as did running water and other services, but workers could not be sent into the communities yet to restore anything there.

In truth, they left everyone outside to die.

Kyungsoo clears his throat: “It’s also the most likely place to host any active-entomopathogen cases.”

“You can call them people, you know? They’re just sick.” Minseok frowns.

The Boarding House AU: Elsa & Romance Novels (I)

Rating: T

Summary: Shardsverse AU. After escaping a death sentence, and forced to come to terms with the idea that she can never return to Arendelle nor see Anna again, Elsa finds herself in the unexpected position of sharing a room with a poverty-stricken young scholar of magic…

Part I: Elsa & Alarik | Part II: Elsa & Christmas

Elsa tried to enjoy the book Alarik had given her for Christmas. She tried very hard, particularly as she appreciated the distraction both the book and the effort gave to her. She read the whole thing, in the days following the holiday, when he returned to work at the university, leaving her alone - to stew, or to wander, or to read. He did make it clear - again - that he didn’t want her to feel trapped there, a prisoner still, her whole world within four walls. “Just say on the busier streets, and keep any money close. Down here… well, it’s not as if people can send their servants to do the shopping. There will be other people like… like you.” Would there be? She was afraid, yes, but not so overcome by it that she was oblivious to his own rather obvious fear and uncertainty. She did wonder, more than once, if he regretted agreeing to let her come here, but how could she ask if that was the case? She couldn’t, of course. He had mentioned once speaking to friends about finding a better place for her, but nothing further had been said. Was that to be the rest of her life, then? Forever moved from place to place, like a pawn on a chessboard, forever hiding, forever in exile? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything - not anymore. Less than half a year since a crown had been placed on her head, and she was in the slums of a foreign city without a skilling to her name. In such a life, how could anyone claim to know anything? Alarik seemed almost relieved to be going back to the university, and she couldn’t blame him - she couldn’t possibly be good company. Still, he promised to be back as early as he could, and she was free to leave, and he had a few skillings, in the box under the window, if she wanted to get something eat or leaves for tea or - “It’s fine,” Elsa said - words that had become almost like a mantra, attempting to reassure herself as much as him. Nothing was fine. She watched from the window as he walked away down the cobbled street, bent against the wind, hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn coat, his too-long hair flopping against the crown of his head. She could feel, clearly, the snow promised by day’s end, the heaviness in the air, filling her, lungs and heart and veins, speaking to its kin within her. At least he didn’t have to worry about her needing to keep a fire going all day, she thought. More light might have been nice, but she didn’t want to use the very limited supply of oil for the lamp, either. She would make do with the dreary sun that made it in through the thick, dusty panes of the window. She stared out, long after he had disappeared - there was something soothing about watching the world out there, safely removed from it but a spectator nonetheless. People passed occasionally - women with folded sacks or baskets, heading to the marketplace; two scrawny boys leading an even scrawnier goat by a fraying length of rope. The snow began to fall mid-morning, and after, the streets were all but empty. With snow, and the tiny room empty and silent around her, she couldn’t prevent her thoughts returning to Arendelle - to all the things she had tried so hard not to dwell on, these last few days. How long had it been? How long since she left Anna? She couldn’t remember. Anna was alone - married and safe, yes, but was that enough to see to her happiness? What would happen if anyone - Princes Hans - found out that she had helped Elsa escape? For that matter, what had happened after her escape? She didn’t know. She had been too focused on herself to find out. Anna might be executed in her place - conspiracy, treason, any number of charges brought against her by those seeking improving in their own fortunes. Who would defend her? To whom could she turn, with her only living family fled? Elsa had just left her - selfish, heartless creature that she was. She looked away from the window - and realized snow was now falling inside as well as out. She pushed up from the bed - quick, furtive movement; backed to the corner, drawing her hands up to her chest. “No.” Her breath coming in rapid, frantic bursts. “No, no, no…” Her father’s voice: “Conceal it, Elsa.” “Don’t feel.” Tucking her hands away, bending over them, desperate. “Don’t feel.” This wasn’t her place. This was Alarik’s place - everything he had in the world. She had to go. Get herself under control. She fled - all but blind to the hallway, the rickety steps, the icy cobbles and their thin coating of snow. How far she ran, she did not know; she ran until, still malnourished and weak from months in a dungeon cell, she tripped over a board hidden by the snow and fell hard to the street, gasping at the pain that reverberated up through her knees, the skinned palms of her hands. And there she remained, trembling and gulping for breath, for another uncertain, indefinite time. She didn’t think she had enough strength left to stand, much less continue to run. She did what Alarik had done, to help calm her that first day she had arrived: she took deep, audible breaths, focusing on the movement of her chest, the pleasant chill of the air as she drew it deep within her. Gradually, her heart slowed, the terrific panic abated, and she could push herself to a sit, her back against the anonymous brick wall behind her, hugging her knees to her chest. She felt dizzy and weak - but once more in control of her own faculties. There was someone else, across the street, huddled, much as she was, but within the confines of a ragged blanket, watching her with dark, wary eyes - and she suddenly realized how vulnerable she truly was here. This wasn’t the wilds of Arendelle, and she had far more to fear from people than from anything in the forest. The last few months in a cell had shown her that truth. She got to her feet, trying not to look as unsteady as she felt. She held her head high - and her arms crossed tightly across her chest. One of her gloves had torn as she fell. Her dress had not; Alarik had been right that the tougher cloth of cheap fabric was a good idea. Her first few steps were wobbly, but she managed to stay up, though her head was swimming and spots danced before her eyes. She had no idea how to get back to Alarik’s boarding house - or even to the market square, from which she might be able to retrace the way they had gone before. She knew she hadn’t gone far - she was still surrounded by ancient, crumbling, looming buildings - but that was little help when she nonetheless could not remember the way “not far” had taken her. “Don’t panic,” she whispered. “Do not panic.” Slightly reassuring - so she tried to convince herself - was the lightness of the snow, the brisk breeze that was nonetheless far from a frigid gale. She had kept a measure of control - that, or her overall weakness impacted her powers as well. Would Alarik know? She knew what he studied - but he had never mentioned her magic, nor asked her any questions. Would he mind if she asked him questions? She had to find her way back to him, first. At the corner, she stopped and tried to get her bearings, some part of her hoping her mind would magically have taken note of where her panicked flight had taken her. But all she saw was dirty stone, grey sky, unbroken scrim of fresh-fallen snow. She tucked her hands more deeply under her arms, and looked back the way she had come, where her footprints were already filling in white. Should she go on, risk getting even more lost while seeking something familiar? Or should she knock on a door and ask for help - was it permissible to knock on a stranger’s door? She didn’t know. Nor did she know how long she stood there on the corner, hunched and uncertain. She couldn’t stay there forever - but how could she know where to go? Her heart was speeding up again, deep breaths becoming more difficult, and though it had not yet escaped, she could feel the cold pulsing just beneath the thin veneer of her skin. “Madame?” A deep, commanding voice, with just a trace of an unfamiliar accent. “Are you in need of assistance?” Elsa whirled, already sinking back against the rough wall behind her, breath hitching. The man was as large as his voice, and made even larger by the layers he wore, the outer of which was a coat that made him look rather like a clean-shaven bear, with matching fuzzy hat. But his eyes, when she found them, were deep and brown and kind. There was such genuine concern in them that her breath caught once more. She remained in her defensive hunch - but the fear that she would have to flee again was already fading. “Has someone hurt you?” the man asked - and now she could find kindness there, too, among the pleasant tone of the accent, still impossible to place. “I- no. Why…?” He smiled. “You have no coat. Though you do not appear cold - I envy you, I confess. I fear I find it cold here even in the midst of summer, though I have been here 15 years now.” She didn’t know what to say - it was like all the well-rehearsed rules of polite conversation had abandoned her when she left her throne in Arendelle. She just nodded. “Still,” the man said, as if she had responded in some normal fashion, “and I do not mean to pry, but you seem… burdened?” Elsa bit her lip. “I.. I’m… lost. I don’t know how to get ho-… to where I’m staying.” “You are new to the city?” There was no judgement in his voice, only compassion, and she felt it wash over her: relief, and comfort, and… trust? “Yes. I’m… I’m staying with… a friend. Dr. Alarik Geatland.” In this city of thousands, how would he know the name? But it didn’t matter - it was all she had. The man’s brow drew down in clear dismay. “We are not acquainted, I’m afraid. Do you perhaps have an address for his residence?” How could she not know that? His address? She was a fool. “I’m… I haven’t been here long, and…” She trailed off, embarrassed, but the man just nodded. He seemed to think hard. “A doctor - at the hospital?” “Oh - no. He’s a scholar. At the… the university.” The man grinned now, wide and triumphant. “Ah! A scholar.” He nodded again. “Yes - I know the university!” Elsa almost cried, relief so great struck her then. “Can you tell me the way?” “Better - I’ll show you!” “Oh, no, you don’t-” But he had already turned. “It’s this way, not far. But be careful, the road is very slippery.” “I… I will be.” She followed him - because what choice did she have? She could think of no other way, short of her earlier thoughts of wandering or knocking on a stranger’s door. This way was far easier, though she felt very awkward, following along behind this large, friendly man like a duckling. “My brother went to a university,” the man said, “but I chose adventure. I took a place on a trading ship, and five years later, I was captain of my own! But once on a visit to my family, I met Lilah, the most beautiful, wonderful woman on all the earth. But she is wise and practical - she would not marry me until I could provide for her, on land. So I came here, and set up my business, and now, Lilah has given me five children, as beautiful as she is.” He didn’t not look to Elsa for responses, and for that, she was grateful. He prattled on as they walked, apparently intending to share as much of his life story as the journey allowed. She didn’t even know his name. She half-listened, but mostly focused on trying to pay attention, now, to the way they went. She had never considered how similar streets could look to one another. Aside from her time spent here, she had gone into the city in Arendelle… maybe twice a year, until she was eight? Certainly not often, and never by herself. The streets had grown finer - they were walking now among large, clean, free-standing residences, many with small gardens or orchards, and bristly fences and gates protecting them. Elsa couldn’t help but imagine what was inside: solid walls, and clean floors, and dustless surfaces, and the smells of fresh linen and dry air from large, open windows and high ceilings. And a place to be alone, and protected. But she reminded herself, forcefully, of the dungeon cell beneath the castle, and the sick dread of no escape. “This is better,” she muttered. “Did you speak, madame?” “Oh - no. I’m sorry.” “We are almost there, and-” “Elsa?” Alarik’s voice - he was across the street and so far away she could only recognize him by the brightness of his hair, but as soon as she looked up, he started running. “This is your doctor?” her guide asked as Alarik reached them, red-faced and gasping for breath. “Yes,” Elsa said, “and I-” But the man bowed deeply then, even doffing his hat, and for a moment, she found herself confused about both who and where she was. “Then I leave you to him with good wishes. I have left my eldest daughter in charge of my wares, and I cannot allow this for too long, or people will know how unnecessary I am in the face of her brilliance.” He straightened, smiling broadly. “But perhaps we shall meet again? Until then, alas, I must bid you a good day, madame.” And before she could even say thank you, he turned and was gone as quickly as he seemed to have appeared. Alarik, finally catching his breath sufficiently to speak, said, “Who was that?” “I don’t know.” A pause - and she looked at him, and was surprised to see what looked like anger in his eyes. “You don’t know? Elsa you can’t just… trust people. People you know nothing about!” She stared at him - for perhaps longer than was necessary - eyebrows raised and lips tight. “Like you?” He looked appropriately abashed - his cheeks flushing even brighter, and his mouth opening and closing several times before he was finally able to speak. “Not like me. I’m not… You know my name, if someone asks! You’ll get hurt, Elsa, you can’t-” The irritation flared to anger. “I can’t?” He sighed. “You shouldn’t.” She said nothing. She just stared at him. And finally, he huffed another sigh, raised gloved hands and let them fall at his sides. “Fine. Just… remember you can’t trust everybody.” “That’s easy enough.” She tucked her own hands back under her arms - last time she’d gotten angry, only a lucky accident had prevented her striking Anna, once again, with magic. “Considering that I don’t trust anybody.” “Not even me?” She didn’t know what to say. She looked away, down at the layer of unbroken snow, marred only by the remains of their footsteps - no more was falling, but the day was still grey and overcast and cold. His third sigh was of resigned acceptance. “Let’s go home?” She nodded. She still couldn’t meet his gaze, but she felt it upon her. They walked most of the way back in silence. She couldn’t decide how she was feeling - recalcitrant? Misunderstood? - but it was uncomfortable, whatever it was, and so she kept her arms tightly crossed, her eyes cast down, following him and very aware, once more, of just how far she was from home. More people were out, now that the snow had stopped, and she was sure they were all staring at her - the strange, hunched young woman wandering streets not her own, no coat or scarf or hat, an anomaly… or a monster? Conceal, don’t feel. “Were you trying to find me?” Alarik finally asked. She risked a glance up, but he was looking pointedly ahead. They had to be nearing his home - the streets had again narrowed to caverns beneath crumbling, leaning buildings. She could smell midden and waste - human and otherwise - even in the frigid air, and could hear chickens down one of the narrow alleys, behind the rows of houses. “Yes,” she said quickly. “I… lost my way.” “You went out?” “I…” She wasn’t sure, at that moment, if she wanted to tell him the truth of what had happened. “I was… worried about Anna.” “You were…” And now he did look at her, as it hit: “Oh. Oh. Of course… oh god, I’m an idiot - I meant to tell you. Anna’s fine. I saw the newspapers, just a couple of days before you arrived. She’s been crowned. Her husband has been named prince consort.” The relief that washed over her was breathtaking - she released a hand to press it hard against her chest, over her pounding heart. “Elsa?” “I’m fine. It’s… I’m fine.” She didn’t have to work as hard to make herself smile as she might have anticipated. But she had to put a hand to the decaying wall as they climbed the stairs to his room, afraid she would not be able to keep her balance. Anna was safe. That was all that mattered, all that would ever matter. Her ebullience lasted until he opened the door to his room, and she saw the snow - not a lot, but enough, and mostly unmelted; the room was hardly warmer than it was outside. Elsa stopped dead - then, when she saw Alarik’s shoulders slump, had to resist mightily the urge, again, to run. She twisted her hands together. The gloves were on, Anna was safe. She could control it. He turned to her, clearly dismayed, and she recoiled. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I-” “I shouldn’t have left you,” he said. Her mouth closed. She folded her arms once more. She did not speak - she had no idea what to say. He pushed his hair, damp and limp with melted snow, out of his eyes, looking down, defeated. “My apologies. Elsa. I shouldn’t have gone so soon.” She looked, again, at the mess she had made - and felt a wave of homesickness wash over her. How many tens, hundreds of times had this happened in her childhood? With the reduced staff, it was usually Gerda - who had always known Elsa’s secret - who came to clean up the mess. She came with rags and bucket and broom - but also hot chocolate. She always brought Elsa hot chocolate, but would never explain why she thought Elsa deserved it, despite her shameful behavior. She never let Elsa help, either, telling her there was a rigorous training required to work in the castle, and Elsa would have to ask her father if she could join the staff. That sometimes - not always, but sometimes - made Elsa smile. “I’ll clean it up,” she said. “No,” Alarik said quickly. “I can do it, it’s fine.” Her words reflected back at her. Was it fine? She didn’t know. He was on his knees, towels in hand, and she stood in the doorway, uncertain and out of place once more. He was shivering, despite the exertion. She wondered if the university had fireplaces. “Wait.” The thought had suddenly hit her. “Are you supposed to be at the university?” He paused momentarily, but didn’t look up. “I’m going back. I was worried you wouldn’t go out to get lunch, so I thought I’d come back. Just to make sure… you were all right.” “Oh. Thank you.” He gave a sort of embarrassed half-nod, still not looking at her. “I don’t want you to worry about me,” she finally said. “I’m not sure I have any choice.” The tone was gentle, but still the words stung. He hadn’t asked for this, any more than she had. So all she said was, “I know.” He had brought things to eat from the university - “They sometimes bring in food around holidays” - and they had open-faced sandwiches in relative silence, sitting, as always, on the floor. Alarik looked broody and displeased, and Elsa didn’t want to make it any worse - worse than she already had. She wanted to tell him two meals a day would be fine, but what if he then felt like he had to skip meals, too? “I’m sorry,” she finally said - an apology for today, and for everything. He smiled - and she didn’t think it was entirely forced. “You’re better company than I’d have in the hall.” She tried her best to smile back. And after he left - promising to bring home dinner, and apologies if he was late - she picked up the book he had given her for Christmas, determined to keep herself occupied. She shouldn’t create more fuss than she already had. She sat on the bed, where she could see out the window - and where there was, perhaps, just a little more light. She crossed her legs, opening the book across them, so that it rested comfortably across her skirt. Then, she read. It was an absolutely absurd story, all about a beautiful young woman who had been caught up, alongside her husband, in the French Revolution. After the war was over, Napoleon now ruling France, they decided to travel - for reasons unclear to Elsa - to England, where the beautiful young woman, wandering through the ruins of a castle, inexplicably found herself sent back in time to the Hundred Years’ War, where of course the English thought she was a French spy. She there got to know a handsome young outlaw, hoping to clear his name fighting for the king. By the time she reached the contrived, inevitable marriage between the beautiful young woman and the handsome young outlaw, she was hardly aware of her own derisory snort - because equally, her mind was absorbed.

‘It’s flavourful as hell’: welcome to Hawaii’s annual Spam festival

In Britain its a joke. In Hawaii its a delicacy. Why does the luncheon meat have such a cult following?

Not even the drizzle can deter the crowds unspooling along Hawaiis Waikiki Beach. As late April showers fall upon Kalakaua Avenue, the roads are lined three-deep with sunburned tourists, surfer bros and silver-haired pensioners. Their colourful T-shirts, flower garlands and fancy dress costumes are soaked by rain, but eagerly they wait. Suddenly, a chorus of tiny ukuleles starts to play. The procession begins. Are they waiting to pay homage to a visiting dignitary or religious leader? No. Theyre here to celebrate Hawaiis favourite food: the immortal luncheon meat called Spam.

I join snaking queues for seemingly endless food stalls, each dish more absurd than the last: Spam pizza, Spam fried rice, Spam crackers, Spam pho, deep-fried mac and cheese bites (with Spam) and, of course, Spam fritters. I spot some Spam-infused macadamia nuts, and a slab of grilled Spam atop sticky rice, doused in soy and bound with seaweed: Spam sushi. Theres even Spam dipped in chocolate.

Serious Spam fans are focused on buying up rare flavours such as Spam Mezclita, Spam Tocino and Spam Portuguese Sausage. Others snap selfies beneath a giant arch of Spam cans, or gawp at a catamaran festooned with Spam tins. Kids try their luck at the Spam wheel of fortune, hoping to take home a branded T-shirt or headphones. I stumble into a king-sized Spam can made of foam, with human arms and legs sticking out. Inside is Honolulu Foodbank employee John Valdez. What would Hawaii be without Spam? he shouts through the costume. It would be boring!

Welcome to Spam Jam, the largest gathering of tinned pork enthusiasts on Earth. Today, I am one of 20,000 fans at the 15th annual event. The residents of Americas 50th state eat more Spam per capita than anywhere on earth, with Hawaiian steak found on five-star restaurant menus and at McDonalds. Last year, 8m cans were sold here and thats just the regular-sized ones, not counting Spam Singles, Spam Spread or smaller tins. But its not just Hawaii that adores Spam: in time for Spams 80th birthday on 5 July, global can sales topped 8bn.

Cans of Spam on display at the Spam Jam. Photograph: Marco Garcia for the Guardian

In Britain, Spam is derided as fish bait, furniture varnish or gun grease; there have long been rumours that it contains pigs lips, snouts, trotters and tail. In fact, it lists just a half-dozen ingredients: pork with ham (Two cuts of the pig. One perfectly tender and juicy flavour), water, salt, sugar, potato starch and sodium nitrite. Spams makers are keen to point out that theres no hidden scrapings or useless bits of pork, and that its all from the shoulder or rear. In fact, at 90% pork, Spam rivals some luxury sausages. Yet in the UK its reputation is up there with Turkey Twizzlers, while its high salt and fat content make it the kind of processed food we now avoid for our health. If Spam is known in Britain as a culinary punchline, why is it so popular across the Atlantic?

In Austin, Minnesota, population 24,716, all roads lead to Spam. Spamtown USA, as it is sometimes known, is a cutesy, model version of a city, all straight lines and artificial lakes. It was here in 1891 that George A Hormel founded a family meatpacking firm that would one day become a Fortune 500 mainstay, employing one in six of Austins inhabitants. Hormels got his feet sticking out the window again, schoolchildren used to say, when the porky odour floated out factory doors.

Georges son, Jay Hormel, was a born opportunist: as a child, hed pay two cents for housewives unwanted sink grease, then hawk it to his fathers soap-making divisionfor twice the price. In 1929, he succeeded George as president and soon came up with a way to make use of rarely butchered pork shoulder meat. He adapted a Napoleonic food preservation technique, adding salt and sodium nitrite to keep it pink and ward off botulism, and at the same time making it indefinitely edible. By 1942, Hormel Foods was selling $120m- worth of Spam a year.

Anne and Mark I Love Spam Benson are in town to marry at the local Spam museum. Photograph: Marco Garcia for the Guardian

Hormel-owned structures still dominate Austins skyline. Theres the stinky plant, rolling office blocks and the Hormel Institute, a biomedical research centre. The apex of the citys microscopic tourist industry is a newly revamped Spam museum, an Ikea-coloured time capsule of social, military and pop culture history. With Spam print beanbags, touch-sensitive screens and a jungle gym, the museum is aimed at the meat lovers of tomorrow, but when I visit it is also packed with elderly locals and Mormon missionaries. Inside, a bespectacled tour guide finds everything Spamazing, including a production line of cans that whizz overhead like Scalextric.

It is the meat that won the war, my guide cheerily informs me. During the second world war, allied soldiers consumed 68,000 tonnes of Spam, but Jay Hormel was devastated by the hate mail he received. The language people use! he told the New Yorker in 1945. If they think Spam is terrible, they ought to have eaten the bully beef we had in the last war. Hormel died in 1954, before President Eisenhower sent a letter with a personal pardon. I ate my share of Spam Ill even confess to a few unkind remarks about it, he wrote, on the firms 75th anniversary in business. But as former commander-in-chief, I believe I can still officially forgive you your only sin: sending us so much of it.

Spam couture. Photograph: Marco Garcia for the Guardian

Today, the Spam museum is hosting its first wedding. Tying the knot are an eccentric British couple, Anne Mousley, 33, and Mark Benson, 42. A smiley care worker from Liverpool, Benson recently changed his middle name by deed poll to I Love Spam.His grandfather worked in Liverpools Spam factory after the war. No prizes for guessing the wedding buffet. Its like nothing else, says Benson of his favourite food, which he eats at least twice a week. Bit of a bacon flavour, bit of a porky flavour. Its totally unique. Spam aficionados of such calibre are rare, although I do learn of one Nebraskan man who in 2007 survived a 30-day Spam-only eating challenge.

Meanwhile, in South Korea, second only to America for Spam consumption, profits are booming. During the lunar new year, Spam is given as a gift, and budae jjigae, a Spam-infused army stew from the second world war, remains popular.

I learn that island territories such as Guam and Micronesia see Spam as a life-saver. During extreme weather, Spams limitless shelf life makes it a Pacific Islanders best friend. Later, I speak to a wild-haired Spam celebrity in rural Alaska, known as Mr Whitekeys. For 26 years, he ran a Spam-themed bar, complete with frequent Spammer cards buy 10 meals, get one free. If you want meat, you gotta have Spam, he says via Skype. Why? You cant get fresh supplies in large amounts, and half the time you dont have refrigeration.

Back in sunny Hawaii, breakfast beers are noisily slammed on a plastic folding table. Three miles from Waikiki Beach, I am mingling with professional chefs at the esteemed Kakaako farmers market, surrounded by organic produce and artisanal pasta. Keen to know what islanders really think of Spam, I talk to chef Mark Gooch Noguchi, 43, who runs the Pili Group, a culinary movement based around healthy, sustainable food. The opposite, one would assume, of Spam.

Spam-based dishes on display at Spam Jam 2017. Photograph: Marco Garcia for the Guardian

But I love, love, love Spam, Noguchi tells me, unprompted, between swigs of beer, dressed in shorts, flip-flops and a loud flowery shirt. We grew up on it, he explains, passing me a pan-fresh beef taco. I remember when I was cooking in New York, other chefs would joke with me, like, Ha, you guys eat Spam, he says. But our parents had gone through the second world war. The big joke among local people is that if you visit your grandparents and look downstairs, theres six cases of toilet paper, four cases of paper towels and three cases of Spam. In Hawaii, Spam is the cement that bonds its many cultures from Japanese, Filipino and Hawaiian native, through to mainland United States. Noguchi proudly boasts that locals can tell Spam from its canned-pork competitors Tulip and Treet. Elsewhere, Spam is slowly being appropriated by hipster culture, just like scotch eggs and avocado before it. Its both an indulgence of nostalgia and two fingers up to eating clean. In Londons Soho, Jinjuu restaurant makes a Spamarita cocktail, mixing Spam-infused Ocho tequila with mezcal, pineapple, citrus, mandarin orange and agave nectar. And Saint Marc, an upscale restaurant in Huntington Beach, California, has a hidden Spam speakeasy known as the Blind Pig.

Flipping Spam burgers. Photograph: Marco Garcia for the Guardian

Its revered, man, says Nina Pullella, 36, a chef I meet at Kakaako market. I think its the challenge of taking a can off the shelf this strange food from the second world war and doing something spectacular. Pullella is a vegan, from New Jersey via Italy, yet she still oozes praise for Spam as an ingredient (Its flavourful as hell, right?). After three hours at the market, I find just one person down on Spam. And she wont talk on record. Are you kidding? Ill have the whole island on my back, she whispers.

Night falls on Waikiki Beach. As the raindrops evaporate, a female rock band loudly tests the suspension of a flatbed stage. There is a snaking queue for OnoPops, an ice-cream company that flogs a Spam-based popsicle. Its a heartstrings thing, explains owner Josh Lanthier-Welch, 46, a stout man with a goatee. Though a Spam devotee, he warns of the dangers of excess: The Spam musubi [sushi] is a symbol of whats wrong with the local diet. It is so beloved, but living on Spam, white rice and nori will kill you.

As the festival comes to a close, I decide to break my 20-plus years of Spam abstinence (I havent touched the stuff since childhood). Im handed a skewer of cold cubed Spam and crunchy vegetables. I sink my teeth into the soft meat, and am transported back to my youth. The salty, pork-ish flavour wafts up my nostrils. I feel dirty and a little bit sick. Next I try a hot Spam katsu sandwich, from Hula Grill. I take a small bite. Then a larger one. It has a deep, smoky bacon flavour, offset by rich katsu sauce. It is, Im almost embarrassed to say, tremendous. Spam tempura fries, Spam corn dogs and Spam dim sum soon follow.

As I chew, I wonder if Spam deserves its reputation. Perhaps Brits just lack the imagination to cook Spam right. Or maybe, like KitKats in Japan or David Hasselhoffs mega-stardom in Germany, Spam should simply remain a pop culture anomaly the American Marmite that one either loves or hates.

Spam-flavoured macadamia nuts. Photograph: Marco Garcia for the Guardian

Spam fritters

Serves three.

340g Spam (ie, 1 can) 150g plain flour 225ml cold water 3 tbsp olive oil Buttered roll (optional) Cut the Spam lengthways into six thick slices. Put the flour in a mixing bowl and slowly introduce the water, whisking, until you have a smooth batter.

Heat the oil in a large frying pan. Dip each slice of Spam in the batter mix, shake to drain off any excess and lay in the hot pan. When its golden and crisp on one side, flip and repeat until its brown and crisp on both sides.

Serve in a buttered roll, if desired, with chips and peas on the side.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/2017/10/08/its-flavourful-as-hell-welcome-to-hawaiis-annual-spam-festival/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2017/10/08/its-flavourful-as-hell-welcome-to-hawaiis-annual-spam-festival/