I do not claim to understand the mysteries of the latest limited-release holiday flavor that canned-pork brand Spam debuted Tuesday. The company sent us a sample of its figgy-pudding-flavored product last week, ahead of its nationwide release, but the more I learned about this porcine oddity, the less I felt I comprehended.
The tins arrived wrapped in packaging that seemed, at first, to indicate that its processed-pig contents had been molded into the fluted shape of the old-school British sweet. But it soon became clear that no, in fact, it was just a standard block of Spam, merely flavored like the dessert. Still, I had more questions. What, exactly, does a figgy pudding pork product entail? According to the company, it’s the classic Spam, accented with notes of “cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, allspice and cloves, along with … fig and orange flavors.”
The company claimed in a news release that the flavor — which will be available on the company’s website and at Walmart.com and Amazon — was born of a desire to reconnect diners with fond recollections of the days of Christmas yore. (Amazon founder Jeff Bezos owns The Washington Post.)
“Figgy Pudding evokes a sense of nostalgia and warmth, taking consumers back to their favorite memories from holidays past,” the release says. But wait — unless you’re a character in a Dickens novel, it’s relatively unlikely that you grew up throwing down figgy pudding before heading out to go a-wassailing. In British baking, “pudding” can be a generic term used to describe dessert or it can refer to a genre of baked goods that are typically steamed.
Strangely, Spam acknowledges this, citing what I’m sure is the kind of reliable polling that went into midterm-elections prognosticating that found that although a vast majority of people are familiar with the idea of figgy pudding, only 17 percent of them have actually sampled it. “The brand has taken this holiday classic, and seemingly mystical dish, and placed its familiar flavors into the iconic little blue can,” it said.
So to recap, Spam wants us to feel nostalgic for something we’ve never had? Okay, sure, I thought. I was just going to go with this. This pork product was wearing me down and I hadn’t even tried it yet — I had merely tried to comprehend its very existence.
The answer to this mystery wrapped in an aluminum-encased enigma might be quite simple: It could all just be a gag. After all, in 2019, the company released another novelty variety, a pumpkin-spiced Spam, which seemed more about capturing the zeitgeist of that flavor — and generating buzz — than making something tasty.
Bereft of answers, I peeled open the lid to sample the goods. Now I should mention here that I’m no Spam aficionado. I realize that it’s celebrated in some cuisines, as in Hawaii, where it flavors rice, noodle and egg dishes, but it’s just not in my regular rotation. Still, I did my best to channel a Victorian-era urchin by way of the Pacific islands and gave this unlikely amalgamation a try.
I simply sliced it into slabs and pan-fried them until browned and lightly crisped on the outside. Of course, you can get more creative than I did: Our food stylist Lisa Cherkasky approximated the pudding shape displayed on the cans, slicing the block of meat to form long, skinny strips and then holding them together using a blob of mashed potatoes and topping them with pretty cranberries.
Or you could just pitch the tin directly into the trash, which is where it belongs, I ultimately determined after powering through a few bites. I was hoping for a flavor along the lines of a cola-glazed ham studded with cloves and pineapple rings and maraschino cherries, which is absolutely a fond, salty-sweet taste-memory of my childhood. Instead, I was hit by an intense faux-orange flavor that brought to mind those horrifically dyed and colored candied fruits that somehow make their way into objectionable holiday sweets, backed by a discordant chorus of baking spices.
This was, I was sure, the product of an unholy, eggnog-fueled tryst between a hot dog and a fruitcake, and I don’t mean that in a good way, as if there could possibly be a good way for such a monstrosity to taste. I feel the need to warn you and your kin — these are no good tidings.
The experience, which unfortunately lasted as long as a holiday carol earworm, thanks to a lingering taste in my mouth, left me with one final question: What the Dickens were the good folks at Hormel thinking?
