Cheeze Whiz

The Cheez Whiz Incident

Being a product of the sixties I’ve had the privilege of witnessing the birth of many notable consumer items. The Pocket Fisherman, the Bic lighter and the plastic pop bottle are just a few. But the one that I think I connect with the most is a product called Cheez Whiz. That unique blend of chemicals not only formed an orange substance with the consistency of pudding but also somehow created a tangy “cheese like” taste that every kid loved. To this day whenever I see one of those yellow jars with its comic label it always takes me back to a vivid recollection of a cold November evening in 1975.
My sister and I were sitting at the kitchen table after a hard day of sledding. Our cheeks were still rosy red and our feet and fingers still in the process of thawing out. The warm toast on the plates in front of us had been slathered with Cheez Whiz and the aroma was pungent yet inviting. It had become our favorite after sledding treat since it had hit the store shelves not too long before. My mouth watered as I inhaled deeply.
My little sister, who was sitting to the right of me at the head of the table, was eyeballing her own toast much like a starving refugee eyeballs a steak dinner . I half expected her to start drooling. Then after thinking about it, the mental picture of her actually drooling over Cheez Whiz and toast seemed so silly it made me laugh out loud. In fact, I started laughing so hard I couldn’t stop! And even though she didn’t know why, Melissa started laughing just as hard as I was. Soon we were both sitting there at the table laughing loud and merrily and eating our cheese toast.
It didn’t take much of this before my father bellowed from the living room, “Stop messing around in there and eat! I’m trying to watch television!“ Now, my father was from the old school and this was nineteen seventy five, an era when it was still ok to hit your kids. So we knew when to back off. Naturally we both clammed up immediately because in our house a smart tongue could be a serious liability. It might even get you a blinding slap to the back of your noggin.
My dad was an imposing man. In fact, he was scary. He stood lean and mean at 6’4”, two hundred and forty pounds, and sported a close cropped haircut at all times. Dad was an angry and bitter person and it showed in his eyes and in his demeanor. Whenever he was angry with me his face took on a look much like the one a hawk gives to its prey seconds before it digs in its talons. That look made me pee my pants once. He was also a real proponent of the “tough love” method of rearing children so cuffing me behind the head was not out of the question.
Having been warned, we were more than happy to return to eating our tasty, gooey homemade snacks. We sat there munching away like fat rats in a cheese factory all the while shooting each other furtive glances. I could see my sister was on the edge of bursting into laughter again. It soon became apparent to me that if I could make her laugh and keep my own mouth shut, I might succeed in getting her into trouble with the Burgermiester in the other room. I stopped chewing and looked her dead in the eye for a whole 5 seconds before opening my mouth and revealing the contents. That was the money shot. She burst into such a fit that I thought she was going to fall out of her chair. Now all I had to do was to not laugh along with her and all would be well. Miraculously, I did not laugh. But I wanted to! I clamped my hands over my mouth and watched as my sister’s head rolled around with laughter.
To dispel any mystery about my motives for wanting to get my baby sister into trouble, I must pause here and explain myself. When I described the mean giant to you earlier I was giving you MY impressions. My sister would portray “daddy” as a totally different person than I did. After all, she was daddy’s little girl and the apple of his eye. I never once heard dad yell at her, let alone lay a hand on her. That would have been tantamount to blasphemy.
In my mind I could hear a sinister chuckle that I recognized as my own. This was going to be great! Miss Polly Purebread was finally going to get a taste of dads’ wrath. So I waited. Sitting there with my hands covering my mouth trying desperately not to make any sounds. As I tried to stifle my own laughter I realized that I was unconsciously holding my breath and by now my eyes were watering profusely. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I waited for what seemed like twenty minutes for the sound of my fathers’ recliner to make that familiar double clunk that signified that he was getting up.
Sure enough I soon heard what I was waiting for. Shortly followed by thundering footsteps of course. The sound of those feet stomping across the floor coming my way usually sent waves of terror through my boney little body. But not this time. This time I was unusually calm. Even in his socks my dad tended to send shockwaves through whatever floor he was walking across.
One by one the footsteps came closer to the kitchen and at any second I expected to see his towering figure enter the arched doorway between the kitchen and family room.
I was not disappointed. But instead of looming in the doorway yelling at my sister, as I had expected, he entered the kitchen in a blur and made a beeline straight to where we were sitting. He came at us with his hand in the air poised for the ultimate slap, and for a minute he gave the briefest of pauses seeing that it was the princess who was going to be punished and not the “usual one.” But that pause was so brief you would have to rewind the tape and play it in slow motion to actually see it.
Without even breaking stride he swung his mighty arm and his open hand caught Melissa square in the back of her head. His hand glanced of her head and traveled in a complete arc until it came to rest in the air behind me. He didn’t miss a beat. I soon felt the hard knuckles as he backhanded me own head. Normally that would be enough of a shock to my system that the pain would register immediately. This time however, I barely noticed it. What my eyes were telling my brain overshadowed anything else that was trying to get through.
The slap was actually nominal and didn’t really hurt that much, but it had certainly caught my little sister off guard. She was still in the mist of her own laughter, rocking back and forth in her chair, when the hand connected to her dome. Her head shot forward with unbelievable momentum until her face finally came to rest with a thump in her plate of toast.
The scene that followed next seem to move in slow motion. My sister, who was already in the middle of her meltdown, slowly raised her head from the plate. Her face was as red as a beet and her mouth was gaping wide. From it came the most unearthly wailing I have ever heard. It looked like she was having a stroke or something of that nature.
This is only funny because as she sat there bawling her eyes out the two pieces of cheese toast were stuck to her face like giant postage stamps. One on her forehead and one on her right cheek. They were stuck there good too because no matter how many tears she streamed down her face they didn’t move. The sight of her in this state almost made me lose my composure. She just sat there with that toast stuck to her face, wailing and crying. She seemed totally oblivious to the fact that they were even on her face.
My dad was not one to find humor in the things around him, but I swear, to this day, that as my father left the room I could see just the faintest hints of a smile on his face. I’m sure he didn’t actually smile but laughter can shine through even the roughest of exteriors. And on this day it did just that. For that I’ll always remember Cheez Whiz.