Miracle Whip
Artist: Karen Germain
Souplantation was my breaking point.
About a month ago, my favorite buffet-style restaurant announced that it would be closing all locations immediately, unable to recover from the impact of Covid-19. The closures had dealt the franchise a significant financial blow, and due to safety concerns, buffets are dead.
I could taste the zest of their signature tuna tarragon salad and the sweet burst of warm blueberries from their muffins. I loved the texture of the thick noodles in their chicken soup and tang of their strawberry-lemonade.
These specific flavors that were familiar and reliable to any Souplantation location, the same way that a McDonald’s cheeseburger in Europe, will bring you right back to your hometown.
The news of Souplantation hit me hard. I cried, and I expressed my sadness on twitter. I spent a disproportionate amount of time thinking about and discussing this loss. A few weeks later, I understood why this was such a big deal.
When my mom passed over a decade ago, she took with her familiar tastes. I never showed an interest in learning how she made her Thanksgiving stuffing or her famous potato salad. These dishes of my childhood died with her, and I can’t figure out how to recreate them.
Taste is a powerful sense.
Souplantation was a national chain, and it fell. I’m already mourning the mom and pop restaurants that won’t make it. Last, November, I moved from my home state of California to Colorado. When I moved, I left feel reassured that I could always visit, but now I realize that when I’m able to return to Los Angeles, the landscape will be much changed. Tastes will have disappeared.
Like many others, this virus has given me the impulse to experiment in the kitchen. We’ve baked bread and made homemade pasta. I’ve attempted to crack Mom’s recipes. Like a scientist, I’ve recorded my experiments, documenting the exact amounts of spices. Although I haven’t been able to figure out the right combo of ingredients for her more famous dishes, I did have break-through with the humble BLT sandwich, or as mom made it, just a BT, skip the lettuce.
Two slices of Weber’s white bread toasted, three slices of crisp bacon, a quarter of a tomato, and a generous heap of Miracle Whip. A few weeks ago, my squirt jar of Miracle Whip, a controversial condiment choice I realize, squeezed out an extra-large dollop, much more than I would typically use. Rather than wiping it off, I left it. That particular sandwich tasted exactly like my childhood. The proportion of Miracle Whip was precisely right; I had not been as generous as Mom.
I hold out hope that in our new normal, many of my old favorites will remain. If not, I can time travel with Miracle Whip.
