Because my childhood years ended at the end of the 1950’s — I turned twelve in 1960 — I grew up with the first generation who had frozen foods in their home freezers. My mom was a great cook, so it was a rarity for her to reach into the freezer compartment of our Frigidaire for anything but ice or ice cream. Oh, and one time for my sister’s Snow White doll. I was experimenting to see if she would look even more beautiful with her head sprouting icicles. Not to brag, but I was 60 years ahead of Disney’s own princess in Frozen.
When Swanson premiered their TV dinners, much of the country took notice. But this littlest Engel was unimpressed because I already knew all about a different frozen meal: this one for lunch. This lunchtime treat was my first exposure to independence, because I was allowed to make it all by myself. To a preteen, this was a Big Deal.
On Saturdays, my mom would go in to help my father at his Midwestern Hosiery Shop. As she never failed to remind him, my dad’s Number One Saleswoman was my mother. Before the advent of frozen food, Mom would pre-make a sandwich for me to eat for lunch while she was working.
But when I first tasted a Morton Chicken Pot Pie at a friend’s home, I went crazy over the flaky crust and chunks of chicken and veggies in a velvety cream gravy. I begged Mom to let me make it myself for lunch when she was at Dad’s store.
She agreed. I thought it was incredibly cool that I could preheat our oven, bake the pie at exactly 350 degrees, set the oven timer, and use an oven mitt properly. I was far too easily impressed by my own accomplishments back then. Yep, still am.
It was a Friday afternoon in ninth grade science class when I was daydreaming of the pot pie I’d be making for lunch tomorrow. Mr. Johnson, our young teacher, was doing a lesson on spores — cells that bacteria produce — and warning how they can multiply to produce toxins, leading to food-borne illnesses. I was partly listening to him, but mostly thinking about that flaky crust.
I snapped to attention when I suddenly heard him mention “Morton Pot Pies”. Had he read my mind? No, but he was singling the pies out for dishonor. He pointed out that all bacteria spores go dormant when frozen, but reheating food in the oven can trigger them to reactivate. He was implying that when I would happily break the crust on my piping hot pot pie tomorrow, my fork would then be shoveling into my mouth a witch’s brew of “bacillus cereus” to attack my poor young gut!
At dinner that night, I told Mom and Dad about Mr. Johnson’s gruesome lecture. Bless my father. The next morning before leaving for work, he handed me a slip of paper on which he had written the address of Morton Frozen Foods Headquarters in Louisville, Kentucky. He suggested that I write to them to see if they could defend themselves against my teacher’s worrisome indictment. Otherwise, no more pot pies for me.
Being the enterprising student I was, I spoke to Mr. Johnson on Monday and suggested that this would make an excellent extra-credit project for me, even though the whole purpose was to undermine his lecture. He shook his head and grinned a grin that said “You, Elliot, are just too much.”
Dad helped me draft the letter. I put up our little red mailbox flag so our postman would take it away, and then I waited — but only ten days. We were amazed by how fast the reply came. “The power of possible libel,” Dad chuckled. I didn’t understand the libel part, but I sure was hooked on the power part.
The Consumer Affairs officer explained in great detail the precautions that their food scientists took to guarantee that not one heat-reactivated spore could ever survive long enough to sicken a consumer of their fine products. They even included a study guide that my teacher might use the next time he did a unit on food spores.
To be honest, the four-page letter was too much of a good thing for me. This ninth-grader was reading “Blah-blah-blah” by page three. But the last paragraph was a thunderclap of wonder. I was advised to be on the lookout for a special delivery they were sending me. Inside, packed in dry ice, would be two dozen Morton pot pies with their compliments!
They suggested I keep one dozen for my family and give the other to my teacher. Remember Mr. Johnson’s earlier head-shaking and grinning at me? That was nothing compared to his comic stupefaction when I delivered his goodies to him at school in the Morton insulated package. He quipped that while my family would be eating Chicken Pie, he would be eating the Humble variety.
Email Elliot at huffam@me.com or click here