The Fictional Origins of Coleslaw

Growing up in the suburbs of northern New Jersey meant my adolescent social life essentially revolved around diners. Diners are great places for a cup of coffee and a few hours of doing nothing. I consistently ordered meals that came with a side order of coleslaw. For the most part, coleslaw in north jersey consists of green cabbage, red cabbage, and carrot shavings mixed with a thick dose of mayonnaise. There are many regional variations on coleslaw, some involving oil and vinegar rather than mayonnaise, or eliminating or substituting the vegetables.

Since I was quite well known for random tidbits of knowledge, I figured I could pull off explaining to my friends the origins of coleslaw, even if the entire story was fictional. One afternoon I retold an improvisational tale of coleslaw's origin. Since then I've repeated the story a few times, and inevitably I am believed.

When inventing the story of coleslaw's origins, I inserted certain facts that were real, such as mentioning the Panic of 1873. Other facts were so mundane, there was little reason to question them. Most importantly though, coleslaw itself is so pedestrian, there would seem little reason to fabricate a legendary tale about a food given away for free when you order a grilled cheese sandwich. In essence, I created a Clancy Pants before I even knew what a Clancy Pants was.

For those discerning readers interested in the original tale, I wrote up a version here.

Top Milk

For many years when I was much younger, I only drank Top Milk. Even today, home for holidays and family functions, I'm accused of refusing to drink anything but. I'm sure there are a number of you wondering, "WTF is Top Milk?"

Being that my mother was a quasi-hippie-turned-yuppie, our house had the (mis)fortune of enjoying weekly milk delivery from a local dairy processor. The milk arrived in glass bottles. Cardboard and plastic containers, modernity, had not yet arrived in our household.

We drank whole milk back then, rich in its 4.5% fat content. I'm still not sure whether because of the glass jars, or because it was whole milk, but for some reason little fat globules would collect on the surface of the milk. We'd peel back the foil lid, and hidden underneath was a teaspoon's worth of fat. I was not amused.

Fluid mechanics however, is on our side with this one. A full bottle of milk, when tipped to pour a glass, allows the fat to float to the top. On the other hand, a mostly empty bottle of milk lacks enough liquid for the fat to float away. The fat then ends up in your glass of milk.

Top Milk simply means the milk at the top of a full bottle. There was not an opposite of Top Milk, no bottom milk to speak of. There was milk and there was Top Milk, the sweet elixir of a freshly opened bottle. Only Top Milk was assured a fat globule free glass, and so it came to be that I only drank top milk.

I don't drink milk very much anymore, though on occasion I'll pour some over a bowl of cereal or add milk to a mug of coffee. Our refrigerator now only has plastic jugs of fat free, skim milk. But still, if the jug is less than a quarter full, I'll find some other snack or drink my coffee black.

Ring Dings

For those of you who are not in the know, Ring Dings are chocolate cakes filled with white cream. They are similar to a Yodel or Frosted Hostess Cupcake. If I were to guess, I'd say the recipe for each of these delights is probably the same-- same chocolate cake, same white filling, same chocolate coating. Yet, there is something about a Ring Ding these other tasty little snacks lack, something to do with the filling.

The hippie side of my mother prevented us from having any of these sorts of things growing up. Instead of Fruit Rollups, we were blessed with sticky, flat, 100% fruit things, for instance. These imitation fruit rollups could be found at the local health food store. I've found them once again in Whole Foods, and they are still just as disgustingly fiber filled wads of sticky pressed fruit.

Ring Dings though, can't be replicated and sold as a health food. Or at least, the local health food store never had any. How then could I have ever developed a craving for these little cakes?

There was one inevitable day out the year we would end up eating Ring Dings. Once a year, for Mother's Day, my father and brother and I would end up cooking dinner. The meal required a trip to the grocery store, a once yearly trip my father would make. I think nostalgia played a role, but Ring Dings would always appear in the shopping cart.

Years passed since the last childhood Ring Ding and now. Ring Dings are not the easiest snack cake to come across and they are after all, laced with toxic Transfats. But then there they were sitting on the deli shelf between prepackaged pound cake and coffee rolls. I bought a pair the other day, consuming them after a rather ordinary deli meat sandwich. The chocolate coating, softened in the heat, stuck to my fingers. The cream spilled out from between the layers of cake with each bite. For a moment I recalled fond childhood memories of the elusive Ring Ding.

I've had better cream filled chocolate cakes from gourmet cafes and bakeries. I probably could, given the ingredients, bake my own. But then there are the Ring Dings, sitting on shelves of convenient stores and neighborhood delis. What is it about prepackaged snack cakes that make them so irresistible?