I spent all day yesterday writing about Spam.  The kind you eat.

My mom used to fix fried Spam, breaded tomatoes and fried okra every now and then for supper.  So one evening, after Ken and I had only been married a month or so, I fixed that.

Only one time in fifty-seven years did Ken refuse to eat what I fixed.  He never complained, even though I had no idea how to boil water when we got married. Whatever I set in front of him, he ate it.  

But the night I served Spam, he said, "Honey, I can't eat this."

I was surprised.  I thought everyone liked Spam.  Of course, I asked him what was wrong with it--that he wouldn't eat it.

"Well," he said, "When I was flying in the Korean war, the North Koreans sunk our supply ship that was coming in bringing food for the troops.  It was a month before they got another ship in for us, and all the cook had on the shelves, the only meat, was Spam."

"We had fried Spam and eggs for breakfast, Spam sandwiches for lunch--three choices, mayo, mustard or catsup--and Spam for supper as well.  I swore that if I lived through that war, I would never eat Spam again."

I threw the Spam out.  And I never bought another can of it.  That was sixty-three years ago.  I decided that if he wasn't going to eat Spam, I wouldn't eat it either.

Now, I don't eat Spam in honor of those guys who ate it every day, three times a day, for a month.  There's more than one way to honor our veterans.