When a Care Package Contains Questionable Goodies:
My Collection of Marshmallow Cream
by Anne Withers
Everyone loves care packages from home. Whether
it is that little white postcard
with your name misspelled
and a precious checkmark
next to ????? or the mail
carrier finding you at work
with a battered and bruised
cardboard mess, packages
are a highlight for everyone, if not for the contents,
then for the knowledge that
someone is thinking about
you and missing you back
home. But let’s face it, the
contents are pretty amazing! From warm socks to Mint Double
Stuf Oreos, and from taco seasoning to marshmallow cream,
the gifts are appreci… Wait a second, marshmallow cream?
But I don’t even like marshmallow cream! Why is Mom sending me marshmallow cream—in large quantities no less? I’ve
received a grand total of three jars of marshmallow cream since
setting foot in Macedonia. Three jars of incredibly sticky, incredibly sugary, incredibly white…stuff.
The first jar arrived during training so I pawned it off on the
my fellow Sveti Nikole gang and we generally used the sugar
rush provided by a sandwich of those butter cookies and white
cream to kick-start our brains for four hours of language class.
(They are cookies, dang it! Biscuits are a breakfast food meant
to be smothered in gravy and I really miss them so stop reminding me of them all the time with your British English food
wrappers! URRRGGGHHHH!)
Why do I get marshmallow cream in my beloved packages? I
don’t know. Sometimes I request things, like a potato peeler
or some sweat-proof sunscreen. My mom is pretty good at following through; I think it’s because if nothing else it gives her
something to do, some way to help as I “suffer” through two
years without a Wal-Mart.
I bust into packages with unbound enthusiasm, as much as one
can with my one-inch Swiss army knife, completely ignoring
the Skopje Customs tape and the fact that someone else has
riffled through my treasures. I almost always have candy—
Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs, Hershey’s Dark Chocolate Kisses,
whatever—and I locate this as fast as possible, shoveling the
first piece in my mouth within minutes. I’m sure this whole
process is amusing and terrifying to my colleagues when a
package arrives at work. I must look like a cartoon villain
greedily clutching my evil crystal ball, and then only after I
notice they are all staring and with my mouth full of chocolate
do I extend my hand and say, “Saka{?”
By the end of a “package day,” I relive the memories of a fouryear-old’s stomachache from raiding the candy stash. I’ve
spent quality time caressing the Jif Peanut Butter, assuring the
perfect, plastic jar with its freshness seal that its day will come
for joyous release. One of my favorite parts, as I lie on the
couch in a sugar coma, is watching my cat, Aleksandar, jump
and pounce and roll and throw and smack and “other verbs” his
new toys. No package comes without some fresh mouseys or
other catnip vessels for him to chase.
So as he runs around and around my feet, I unload the last of
the contents of the box, some Lipton Noodle packets and KoolAid (Tropical Punch, baby!). I gather all the Wal-Mart sacks
used as stuffing only to find the dreaded jar. It’s sitting there in
the back corner of the box, waiting to surprise me until the end,
as if it knew the simple sight of its blue screw top would produce a look of shear terror. I run away, not wanting it to have
the satisfaction of seeing my reaction. After a few minutes,
I compose myself and steel myself to be brave. I approach
slowly. I grab the jar and carefully place it in the top cabinet
next to its friends and shut the door.
Occasionally, I have requested marshmallows and Rice Krispies, which may have caused the cream fascination. But never
did I send an e-mail stating a desperate need for the cream.
Never, I tell you! I don’t like the stuff. I even remember Mom
would buy the stuff when I was a kid. I’d eagerly spread some
on a graham cracker, eating a total of a couple spoonfuls before
I’d remember that it’s not my favorite thing in the world. Then
I would quickly put the jar in the bottom cabinet never to see
the light of day again. But it wouldn’t be lonely because soon
others would share its fate, banished to the back of the cereal
cabinet for all eternity. Seriously, I think there were at least
five jars populating the space by the time I left for college.
So then I have to wonder, is this the fate of all marshmallow
cream jars, shoved to the back of cabinets and forgotten? Does
anyone ever actually eat marshmallow cream or does every
household throughout the world have the same shameful, unspoken, dark corner? Are over-eager moms brainwashed along
the sugar aisle in the grocery store to forget everything they
know about their children to think, Marshmallow cream, little
Billy loves that stuff. Let me buy it because I think we’re out?
Is some super villain planning to take over the world through
robots submerged in marshmallow cream jars that he will activate once they are properly dispersed in cabinets worldwide?
Maybe I digress a bit.
My point is this: We all love packages from home, but sometimes we don’t love all the contents therein. But we can’t tell
our collective moms to stop sending a particular item because
they might get offended and send nothing at all, leaving us all
without an adequate supply of hot chocolate and taco seasoning
(don’t even think about that horror)! So there they will sit, two
jars of marshmallow cream, waiting in vain in the back of my
cabinet. Unless—oh yes, there is an unless—unless there is a
chance, granted a very long-shot chance, that one person out of
seventy-one volunteers actually eats marshmallow cream. In
my opinion, this is a long shot because I’m almost convinced
of the super villain hypothesis, but if that person comes forward, he or she can once again satisfy his or her taste buds
with a sticky bite of sweet heaven. And I can clear space in my
cabinet for new arrivals.
winter 2008 -