Summary: Massachusetts Senator Jarrett Barrios introduced anti-Marshmallow Fluff Legislation. It was widely ridiculed, then opposed by a measure to make the Fluffernutter the official State Sandwich. The proposed legislation has been withdrawn; Boston’s children again are safe to engorge themselves on the sticky, diabetes-inducing paste. Malden’s pornographers are similarly relieved. All is well with the world.
Ben wanted to cover this story, but I made him give it to me , because I have an anecdote about Marshmallow Fluff that I would like to share.
As a Massachusetts child, Marshmallow Fluff was the sticky lactation from the cultural teat upon which I suckled. I grew up one town over from the birthplace of Marshmallow Fluff — Someville, Massachusetts. Like the cat in this You Tube video, I, as a toddler could shove my entire soft, jelly-like skull into an empty jar of Marshmallow Fluff to lick at the sides. I loved the stuff.
Unfortunately, a few years later, the hormones started surging and I transmogrified into a surly teenage punk. Rejecting my roots, I began scoffing at the white sticky goo upon which I had been raised.
During my teen years, my mother was a big proponent of Sam’s Club. She would come home with 24 packs of Hot Pockets or Steak and Cheese subs, torso-sized tubs of peanut butter, cheesecakes as large as wheels of cheese. One day, she came home with a five gallon tub of Marshmallow Fluff.
“What are you going to do with that?” I sneered as the tiny woman waddled up the steps, her spine audibly creaking under the strain.
“We’ll eat it!” she replied.
I thought I saw some problems with this. “Um. Well. That’s five gallons of Fluff you’ve got there. We use it in one of three things: Fluffernutters, Rice Krispy Squares, or in Hot Chocolate. We don’t really eat many Fluffernutters, Rice Krispy Squares are better when someone else’s Mom makes them, and it’s the middle of summer. So what are you going to use it for?”
My mother was nonplussed by my punkish attitude; the magic of Fluff infused her with fairy-like enthusiasm: “We’ll eat it straight from the jar.”
I left the woman to her delusional ramblings and wandered off to look at pornography and drink Jack Daniels.
I have to admit, I didn’t think much would come of my mother’s claim that she would eat Marshmallow Fluff straight from the jar: certainly, nothing like that had come about when she brought home a 5 gallon jar of Helmann’s Mayonaise the month before (thank Christ). Even I — a chain-smoking, switchblade slinging J.D. punk — didn’t really believe the fabric of my mother’s sanity to be so thinly stretched across the gluttonous belly of mass consumerism.
But that night, I stumbled home from the Rocky Horror Picture Show, dashingly clad in leather, chains and cow femurs that I had purchased at the local Petsmart. Outside, the house was dark, except for the living room window, which was eerily gloaming. I assumed my mother had fallen asleep on the couch again — she has a history of thrashing night terrors, to which my father responds by thoughtfully kicking her out of bed. I tiptoed into the living room to take a look at her.
And there she was, sitting Indian-style on the sofa, cast in the flickering glow of the cathode ray tube, a Five Gallon Jar of Marshmallow Fluff squeezed between her thighs. From the almost blacklit illumination of a television test pattern, a bright blue mustache of Fluff hallucinogenically glowed across her upper lip.
When I came in, she didn’t even look up; the woman was like an engorged caterpillar. But in one hand, she clutched a souffle spoon with a rigid death grip, and she used this quivering utensil to mechanically smear huge globs of Marshmallow Fluff into her mouth, closely followed by a larval slurping noise.
As if anyone needed any more proof that my mother was cool, when she heard about the anti-Fluff legislation, she actually called me up in Ireland and begged me to write this anecdote down for the Consumerist. I love my Mom.