The summer of 1956 was a defining summer in which I was introduced to the first of my nisionot (nisionos for the pronunciation of yeshivisha) in the depth of my commitment to Jewish observance. Not that I want to compare myself to the 10 nisons of Abraham, which happened with great success, however, and unlike Father Abraham, I was really challenged with this first one due to the sheer force of will that he demanded of me. The generations of Jews who came before me and who martyred their lives “leshem shamayim” (for heaven’s sake) expected me to resist the temptation to eat a Twinkie knowing that it was my God-given right and that of all Americans. . child to chop them. Some other products at the time, that hadn’t had hechsherim, could get away with it, because everyone knew the products were kosher, like Hershey’s Chocolate. Even the name sounded Jewish. Twinkies, on the other hand, sounded American, looked like treif, and was actually glatt treif. There was no excuse around this, no rationalization, no excuse. It was universally accepted that they were treif. There was no dissent on this, not even from the most modern of the rabbanim in Albany Park. The animal fat listed in the ingredients, which undoubtedly made them irresistible, hardly came from a kosher slaughtered bovine creation.

He was only nine years old, and like every other cosmopolitan kid living in Albany Park, he had been to the local soda shops, newsstands, and grocery stores where Twinkies were readily available. They were always placed alongside the other iconic Hostess product: Hostess Cupcakes. But it was always the Twinkies who winked at me as I stood a foot away looking at the package, wondering what that first bite would taste like. Truth be told, Hostess Cupcakes never tempted me. They always looked plastic, too perfect, too smooth, lined evenly with the paper liner, never, never overflowing, like sumptuous home-baked cupcakes – uneven, textured, and too bulky for the paper liner. Every time I saw a Twinkie it made my mouth water, wondering why it had to be treif. As difficult as it was to get away from the food stall where they were so prominently displayed, it wasn’t impossible. Avraham Avenu would have been proud, although I often wondered which of his ten tests would have been comparable. Perhaps it would have been number 5 according to Rashi or number 3 according to Rambam. Either way, I felt my commitment was there.

To my horror, the real test didn’t come until I went to Eugene Field day camp in the summer of 1956 with my lay Jewish neighbor Jerry, who lived a few doors down. We used to ride our bikes around the neighborhood, but this would be our first hike up Lawrence Ave on Ridgeway in the direction of Foster, where the lodge was located. Lunchtime on that first day at camp was the nisayon ​​of my life, which I would rank Avraham number 10 there according to Rashi and Rambam. On a park bench, my friend gobbled up his salami sandwich with a carton of milk, which looked infinitely more appealing than my tuna sandwich. However, the surprise came when Jerry took a pack of Twinkies out of his brown bag. I looked at my dessert, which was a measly pair of homemade chocolate chip cookies wrapped in crumpled aluminum foil that looked like it had been recycled over the last month. Then I looked at Jerry’s Twinkies and my mouth started to water. He offered me one of his Twinkies and for a moment that seemed like an eternity I was tempted to reach out when Adam reached out and bit into the forbidden fruit. It was a painful moment, but in my youthful naivety I realized that if I could not withstand this great test, I could never withstand any future temptation.

The summer of 1956 was certainly a milestone, a fitting introduction to the world where options are presented and decisions are made. I never ate a Twinkie, but the irony of all this is that I was upset by the news last week that the Hostess Company went bankrupt and the future of the Twinkies product is uncertain. Until now, my entire conscious life has been accompanied by certain indicators that have provided me with comfort zones as I progress through life. These iconic images and products that have accompanied me throughout my journey are slowly disappearing, which incidentally casts a shadow over my own mortality. From the age of nine until today I was able to walk into any supermarket anywhere in the United States and look at a package of Twinkies. It makes me feel good, comfortable and safe even though I never ate one. It is something like the Israeli meat product “loof” (equivalent to American spam), a staple of army field rations that has been around since before the establishment of the state, which gives it iconic status. That has also disappeared to my great dismay. Perhaps you could say how Israelis feel about the loss of beauty that I feel about the impending disappearance of Twinkies from the American culinary landscape. America without Twinkies is like Israel without hair. It just can’t be!