AMERICAN CHEESE
by Jim Daniels
At department parties, I eat cheeses
my parents never heard of—gooey
pale cheeses speaking garbled tongues.
I have acquired a taste, yes, and that's
okay, I tell myself. I grew up in a house
shaded by the factory's clank and clamor.
A house built like a square of sixty-four
American Singles, the ones my mother made lunches
With—for the hungry man who disappeared
into that factory, and five hungry kids.
American Singles. Yellow mustard. Day-old
Wonder Bread. Not even Swiss, with its mysterious
holes. We were sparrows and starlings
still learning how the blue jay stole our eggs,
our nest eggs. Sixty-four Singles wrapped in wax—
dig your nails in to separate them.
When I come home, I crave—more than any home
cooking—those thin slices in the fridge. I fold
one in half, drop it in my mouth. My mother
can't understand. Doesn't remember me
being a cheese eater, plain like that.
~ from In Line for the Exterminator. © Wayne State University Press, 2007.
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Raise your hand if you grew up with Kraft American Singles — *looks around* — okay, I see that’s most of you. 🙂
Did your Mom tuck them in your lunchbox sandwiches along with baloney or ham? Did you ever snack on a slice to satisfy between-meal munchies? Remember how your mouth watered as you anticipated that first bite of a juicy grilled burger with melty cheese oozing down the sides? Or best of all, what about the fine art of slowly pulling apart a warm grilled cheese sandwich just to see how far those gooey strings would s-t-r-e-t-c-h?
Jama's Alphabet Soup 