Marshmallow Fluff

by Sigmund Werndorf

… .I love Marshmallow Fluff. It is a peculiar love, I know. Most people barely know what it is, and those that do tend to have a lukewarm opinion of it. But they just don’t understand it. All they see is the gooey white ectoplasmic mass, marshmallow in spreadable form. But to me as a kid, it was future. I’d watch sci-fi TV shows and imagine what kind of food they ate, and it would be soft, white, and sweet. The first time I saw my friend’s mom cursing to herself as she attempted to get it onto bread without coating the rest of the kitchen, I knew Fluff was the stuff. Nowadays, my associations with it are less happy, but I still love it. There are rules for eating Fluff. The first is small portions. If you’re doing it right it should be slightly warmer then your mouth, which means when it hits your tongue it will actually cool down, causing it to go from gooey liquid to a sort of rubber cement consistency that will instantly start to glue together whatever it touches. Not too bad when there’s half a table spoon. Horrible when your mouth is filled with the stuff. The second rule is never alone and never more than two companions. The longest running competitors were Nutella and toasted bread, preferably sourdough. Peanut butter is too dry, and chocolate syrup too sweet. I’ve experimented. I’ve tried everything from catsup to Indian chutney to kimchi, just to see if there’s some magical combination undiscovered due to queasiness or lack of imagination.
… The convenience store just down the block from my house has the greatest collection of condiments I’ve ever seen in my life. If that impresses you, you may want to re-think it for a second, because, really, how many collections of condiments have you seen, even over the course of your entire life? If it doesn’t impress you, then you obviously haven’t seen the place. Half the damn store is devoted to condiments. Every nationality from Malaysian to Canadian, name brand next to micro-batched. It’s massive. I suspect it’s to make up for the dreadful lack of actual food. You want imported German beet-catsup? They got it. You want eggs that haven’t expired three days ago? Not going to happen. How about Pakistani flower curry? Aisle two. Bread? Wonder Bread only, buddy.
… I don’t go to it very often any more.
… I used to spend a lot of time there and not just because of their prodigious collection of sauces, toppings and spices. The other reason is because they’re open 24 hours a day, and I’m an insomniac. I find that more and more people are these days, so I’ll spare the poetic description of what twelve hours of sleep a week will do to you. The point is I had a lot of time to kill, and at four in the morning, with work looming in just five hours, browsing exotic taste enhancers for what was becoming more and more the holy grail of condiments, the perfect spread to mix with Marshmallow Fluff, actually sounded like a good time. And you would be surprised how crowded a corner convenience store can be in the wee hours of the morning.
… So there I was, aisle two, debating between a Russian cod paste that looked promising but was past its expiration date, and what appeared to be a Kazakhstani knockoff of teriyaki sauce that would probably be boring, but safer. I wish I could tell you this was an atypical Thursday night for me, but at that moment it really wasn’t.
… ..That was when she broke my concentration. She leaned in and pulled a thirty dollar jar of gochujang off the shelf and continued walking. There are two unusual things about this. First, she wasn’t Korean. Gochujang is a savory and pungent vegetable sauce that has been fermented for over a year, despised by most of the world for its vinegary flavor and rotting fish scent, and completely indispensable in Korean cooking and Korean life. The second thing is that she was my age. It might even be argued that she was attractive. My interest was piqued. Then I glanced at her shopping basket, and I was in love. Indonesian horseradish, bean curd, fermented date juice, I’d tried every one of them, and I’d never seen another person willing to do the same. She paused, examining a can of poached tomatoes.
… “I would recommend against those.”
… She looked up, blank faced, thick black glasses strait out of the 50’s, pony tale bobbing.
… “Why?”
… “Well, they expired in nineteen eighty-three.”
… She checked the label and let out a snort of amusement. “Thanks.”
… I won’t ever forget that thanks. Her eyebrows shot up and she pulled a thin lipped smile, then a small nod as she wheeled about to continue with her shopping. I let out a long sigh. Thus ended my attempt at human contact, with a girl no less. The failure to sustain a conversation with her drove me to dejected recklessness, so I decided to take a risk on the fish paste and made my way to the front counter, manned, as usual, by Anil, a thirty-seven year old Tibetan guy who, I knew, was most of the way through his doctorate in industrial engineering. After six months of nocturnal browsing Anil and I had formed a certain level of mutual respect, perhaps because he knew what it was like to be up all night. Or maybe it was because I never asked if he was from India.
… “Ooh, are you sure you want to try this one, Timothy? It’s over three months past expiration!”
… Anil speaks pretty good English, the barest hint of an Asian twang that, don’t tell him I said this, really just sounds Indian to me.
… “I’m pretty sure it’s fine.”
… I pulled out my money to pay him the twelve dollars and eight cents owed when the front door burst open, bell tinkling violently. Everyone in the store looked up. Me, Anil, the girl, the two old Russian babushkas, all of us, in unison, stared at two balaclava- wearing figures holding guns.
… As I lay there, it occurred to me that I could die that night. A shotgun blast to the chest isn’t the most dignified way to go, but it could be worse. I think some small part of my mind had always figured that if I were to die a premature death it would be from consuming some dangerously expired jar of… well, perhaps Russian fish paste, or maybe a poisonous bottle of Jamaican pufferfish extract, improperly treated in production. Point is, when food poisoning seemed to be a sure bet, the prospect of death by shotgun felt disturbingly romantic. And the only thing I was regretting as I lay there was that I wouldn’t get to know her.
… It was during this rumination that Anil activated the security system. Steel shutters slammed down outside all the windows and the front door. We were in lockdown. There was more screaming. The second gunman smashed a security camera with the butt of his shotgun. The first gunman ran to the entrance and started hitting the roll-down door, flailing about wildly at it. I stood up cautiously and looked at Anil, who was cursing as he fiddled about behind the counter.
… “Are the police coming?” I asked quietly, glancing at the girl who was watching the robbers, mouth open in surprise.
… “No!” sobbed Anil. “The robbery button is broken! I hit the riot button! We’re on lockdown! And I can’t get it back open!”
… I worked over the implications of this. That the store had such a complex security system was unsurprising to me. That it was in poor repair and half broken was not shocking either. “The riot button?”
… “For when there are riots and looting,” he explained, beginning to panic.
… The two gunmen met in the middle of the store, hoarse whispers audible to everyone. One rushed to the back door and disappeared. The other turned. “Everyone stay cool. I’m going to come around and take your cell phones.”
… The robber’s voice was wavering and panicky. Me and the girl made eye contact. The man came over and collected my phone. He wore hideous jeans embroidered with sequins in the shape of a Chinese dragon and a faux leather jacket. A beard poked out from under his mask. His hand was sweaty. He rounded up all the phones, spending a minute yelling at the grandmas, not believing them when they said they didn’t have phones. I was wondering how much of an asshole this guy must be when both of them caved and handed over their iPhones.
… “I texted the police.” She had crept up to me while I watched the proceedings.
… “You can do that?” I whispered back, my heart racing.
… She nodded, face serious, eyes containing a glint of amusement. “How soon do you think they’ll be here?” I asked.
… She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they won’t show up at all. But it’s something.”
… “Well, we can hope – “
… The gunman rounded on us.
… “No more talking!” he yelled, voice cracking a little. “That goes for everyone. No talking!”
… The second robber ran in from the back and they went into frantic, hushed conversation for a moment, then the bearded one in the ugly jeans advanced on Anil. “Open the shutters, man!”
… Anil raised a shaking hand but replied in an indignant voice, “I can’t! The system is broken, it won’t open up.”
… “You’re lying!” Beardy screamed.
… “Why the hell would I lie? You think I want to be stuck in here with you? You think I care what happens to the money in this store? Hell, no! I’m not the owner.”
… Beardy nodded, suddenly reminded of their original purpose.
… “Yeah, yeah, gimme the money.”
… Anil almost rolled his eyes and opened the cash register. He began stacking bills on the counter.
… “Are the police coming?” The robber asked, repeatedly glancing at the front door.
… Anil nodded smoothly. “Yes.”
… My head snapped over at the bluff, but I said nothing and hoped Anil knew what he was doing. Anil and the robber debated the truth of this statement and the possible implications should the authorities actually show up. I considered the argument unwise of Anil, considering the obviously unstable mood of the man.
… “Man, and I really just wanted some groceries.” She let out a long sigh and got comfortable on the linoleum floor.
… “Well, you came to the wrong place.” I snorted.
… “Tell me about it.”
… We giggled together for a second.
… “Hey, didn’t you hear? Shut up!” cried the second gunman from the front door, still trying to get the shutters to raise. I glanced at the frozen goods wall where a constant stream of muttered Russian had been rising from the babushkas since the shutters came down and decided against pointing it out to him.
… There was a pause of polite obedience as the two of us sat like naughty kids, reprimanded by the teacher.
… “So, what do you need gochujang for?” I whispered, unable to resist. She smiled.
… “Pork. There’s this Korean barbeque around the corner from my house that does the most amazing marinated pork. I’ve been trying to replicate it for months now, and I recently found a recipe using the stuff. Have you used it before?”
… I nodded. “Yea, careful, it’s…. fragrant.”
… “Powerful?”
… “Oh, yeah.”
… “Perfect. I really want the flavor delivered with a punch, you know?”
… I smiled and my pulse began to quicken again. I was falling in love.
… “What about shut up don’t you two understand?”
… We stared up innocently at the second robber, who wore a black turtleneck sweater in addition to his balaclava. I could see the whites of his eyes. He must have been sweltering. “You think this gun is a prop? It’s not. Shut the hell up!”
… I could smell his sweat. It was, I remember thinking, a convincing display, as he waved his pistol in our faces. But love’s bite had had made me impervious to fear. As soon as he stalked back to the shuttered door, we resumed.
… “Do you cook with a lot of sauces?” I asked hopefully.
… “Well I cook a lot, but I can’t say I’ve really explored the condiment realm very thoroughly.”
… “So, fermented date juice isn’t on your regular shopping list then?”
… She stifled a laugh. “No, I just kind of saw this place and decided I had to get some weird stuff now that I’ve seen it, you know? A friend recommended the place after I was having trouble finding gochujang. I promise I mean to use it, though.”
… I was on the verge of asking what she planned to make with the date juice when something along the lines of an artillery blast went off very close by. Turtleneck had attempted to shoot at the steel shutter that barred the entrance. I guess I should say that he shot it successfully, as the bullet or shell or whatever did in fact hit the shutter. However, the implacable corrugated barrier remained, minus a two or three inch hole.
… Beardy ran over to him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, jackass?” he screamed. “Well, one of us has to do something before the cops get here!”
… The robbers scuffled with each other. Anil and I shared a glance. The babushkas began to titter.
… “What about you?” she asked, ignoring our captors’ unprofessional conduct. “Why are you so interested in my condiment habits?”
… I blushed a little. “Ah, I spend a lot of time here,” I confessed. “I’ve tried most of this stuff at one time or another, it’s kind of a running experiment.”
… She giggled and I let out a gasping chuckle of my own. I’d been holding my breath for her reaction without realizing it.
… “Have you heard of Marshmallow Fluff?”
… “That spreadable marshmallow stuff?”
… I nodded.
… “Yeah, I think I’ve had it before. Kinda weird.”
… I hoped that weird was a good thing in her book. “Well I’m trying to find the perfect two things to go with it.”
… “So, like…toast and peanut butter?”
… “Yeah, but I’ve tried that, peanut butter is too dry.”
… “What about just butter?”
… “Doesn’t clash, but the butter just disappears under the Marshmallow Fluff, you can’t tell it’s there.”
… She nodded slowly, brow furrowed, thinking hard. “Wow, you’re right, it is hard.”
… Inside I was jubilant, but I maintained a serious face.
… “What about-”
… She didn’t get to finish. A loud noise began at the front shutter, making Beardy and Turtleneck flinch in terror. We stood up to get a better look. All eyes turned to the door. The sound was a high pitched screaming, but had a flowing quality to it. Then a bright, grainy beam of light began to break through near the wall. Beardy and Turtleneck exchanged glances and began to back up, their guns held loosely in their hands. I could hear them hyperventilating. We all stood silently staring as the dot of light cut a line across the base of the shutter. Then it stopped, a molten outlined segment now cut into the barrier.
… Suddenly, the shutter rolled up. The robbers were frozen in fear, fascination, curiosity, I don’t know. However, when the SWAT team member burst through the door, I’m fairly sure it was fear. I think Turtleneck wet himself. There was screaming, mainly from the SWAT team. The robbers dropped their guns, throwing their hands in the air. I’m fairly sure that’s how it happened. Beardy’s pistol went off as it hit the floor.
… She was suddenly on the floor, letting out little gasping cries.
… There were a few more gun shots after that, but I was oblivious. I kneeled at her side, frantic, and watched blood begin to stain her shirt at her hip. Her face was twisted with surprise and pain. I was crying. Unsure of what to do, I flapped my hands above her, planning to stop the blood, then hesitating, not wanting to touch the wound and infect it, but then needing to do something.
… It ended with a SWAT man throwing me to the ground, pinioning me, and putting a zip tie around my wrists. He looked at her and began screaming for a medic. Her eyes met mine. Paramedics swarmed her. Face down on the floor afforded a poor view of the proceedings, but medical detritus flew liberally to the floor, and copious anxious and loud instructions were issued.
… We were both lifted at the same time, me by a SWAT officer, her on a stretcher by paramedics, our eyes never leaving each other. She was still conscious. Her lips moved. As they carried her off, she managed to speak to me.
… “Graham crackers. Chocolate.”
… It was genius. I had been thinking of Marshmallow Fluff as a condiment, a sauce, a topping. Instead, I should have thought of it as what it is. Marshmallow. And what do you do with marshmallow? Smores. The crunch of the Graham Crackers would counter the creamy of the Fluff, and a regular bar of chocolate would not have the overwhelming sweetness of syrup.
… My revery was interrupted by the SWAT officer pushing me through the front door and into the parking lot. Police cars, SWAT vans, two ambulances pulling away.
… The details that stand from that night are funny more than anything else. Anil’s look of beleaguered irritation when they burst in. Beardy’s swagger. Turtleneck’s panic. Her giggle. Her smile. The look of pain on her face. She was right of course. Graham crackers and chocolate are perfect. But as I sat at home the next day, munching on the combination, I realized I didn’t know her name and never would.
… I don’t go back to the corner store very often anymore and I don’t really have Marshmallow Fluff much either, in S’more form or otherwise. But I still love it, and those times I do have it, I think of her.

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Sigmund is a student and writer. Born in the desert sun, he’s been slowly making his way north on a never ending quest for fog and perennial cloud cover. Occasionally, he cooks.