North Street residents ham it up with SPAM carving contest
Inventor Nikola Tesla warned of "manmade horrors beyond your comprehension." A culinary nightmare was celebrated for the 30th year in a row on North Street Saturday afternoon — pink chunks of Spam plopped in all their pepto-abysmal glory onto plastic tablecloths, canvasses for twisted art projects.
For three decades, the annual Spam Carving Competition has had Madisonians asking "what on Earth is that smell?" — a question competition host David Pouncey has had no problem answering.
Pouncey and friends based the competition, which is exactly what it sounds like, on a similar spectacle they'd heard about in Seattle. It was an instant classic.
"It was just a wild success — everybody was just crazy about it," he said. "It's a widely diverse crowd, and it's always a fun group of folks that are there to have a good time and to gawk at food."
The rules are lax: Contestants, usually about 20 of them, are given one can of Spam each with which to do whatever they please. The in-person competition runs from 2 to 6 p.m. Contestants are allowed to bring additional materials, start earlier, or even submit entries via photos online. Each entry must come with a written essay.
This Spam is for art, not consumption
During World War II, troops received Spam, which was invented in 1937, with their rations. The product spread to Japan and Hawaii, where it remains a staple in many households.
Pouncey's father worked for Hormel foods, the longtime mystery meat's purveyor, and Spam had a not insignificant place in young Pouncey's diet.
"I have a particular disaffinity for Spam. We didn't have it all the time, but we had it more than I'd prefer," Pouncey said. "I find it repulsive."
Food and drink are available for consumption at the event, but Pouncey makes it very clear that none of the Spam is to be eaten.
"People always asked if I could just have people bring stuff, and I'm like 'absolutely not,' because some wisecrack person would bring Spam canapes or some kind of stuff like that," he said. "I am not a fan of having any Spam for consumption — it's strictly for art."
And the art is all over the map
Among Saturday's entries were a blubber duck, a Spam heart collage featuring different fabrics and a virtual entry featuring a chunk of Spam virtually unchanged save for a smiling face carved charmingly into a corner. The accompanying essay was a haiku, explaining that the artist in this case was seven months pregnant and prone to procrastination.
While some of the creations may appear unassuming, some years the meek have emerged victorious over more elaborate pieces. In this meat grinder of a competition, personality goes a long way.
"Some originality is helpful. Humor goes a long way and that's fairly broad," competition judge and former host David Henning said. "I've given the top score to carvings based on essay."
Virtually nothing is off-limits in the world of Spam carving. Henning has seen a functioning volcano, a working whistle and an in-depth re-creation of the Oklahoma City bombing. His all-time favorite, though, was a 1943 Spam penny, accompanied by an essay about the World War II rations and the need to swap coin-making materials to save copper for the war effort. The Spam penny, the essay said, came with the advantage of being edible.
Henning has a penchant for civil defense foods, the type doomsday preppers pile up in underground bunkers. But despite the long shelf lives many potted meats advertise, Henning warns that after about 20 years, the cans begin to bulge. While his own collection of peculiar canned meat has grown over the years, he's never had an explosion.
"It's been close," he said.
In the interest of balance, the competition's judges include a vegetarian.
Some entries from years past sit in Pouncey's garage windowsills, embalmed by the unforgiving sun. Despite their thick, leathery outsides, the abominations have held up remarkably well.
"It is disturbing that a food product can be preserved for seven or eight years without really changing shape or growing mold," Pouncey said. "It becomes kind of more like a rock."
'There's something of beauty inside'
Saturday's crowd was a mixed bag: Some came with tools and accessories ready to compete, less seasoned contestants brought only their artistic visions, and some came merely to gawk, driven by a morbid curiosity.
Since one of the stated rules of the event is that "nothing is sacred," it's appropriate the day was blessed by two of the locally famous red-clad Badger Nuns, Mary Beth Drabik and Mary Patricia Hank, who mingled with the crowd carrying rosary beads and a ruler.
Pouncey doesn't compete or judge, what with his close involvement in the planning of the event. He does, however, participate for the love of the game. His creation this year was especially heinous: a canvas painting featuring semi-liquefied Spam doused with food coloring. Have you ever put Spam in a blender? Don't. The resulting scent is something Hannibal Lecter himself would balk at.
But that's what the event is about, at its salty, pink core: finding the radiance in the repulsive. Do you think Michelangelo found that chunk of marble particularly nice to look at? No. But he kept chipping away at it until he unearthed each muscle and curl of mighty David. And what, after all, is Spam if not the marble of the hog?
"What I think is the most important thing to take away from this contest is that out of something that is so repulsive, if you look hard enough there's something of beauty inside," Pouncey said. "There's something amazing just waiting to be discovered."
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