From Khunk to Chunk®:

The History of a Trademark and Its Underground Scourge

Herein, I make another confession. Having failed, in the Tepid War, to stop corn and white flour from supplanting the complex and healthful whole wheat, I turned my energies to corn itself, with the intention of undermining the industry from within. Once again, my actions had an effect quite contrary to my own intentions and those of my superiors in the Minneapolis Intelligence Agency. Alas, my confession must once again take the form of a History, in this case of a syrup and the terrors it spawned.

In 1958, a modest little syrup stand opened in Gnaw Bone, Indiana. The owners were Jake and Glenda Kirkland, who had begun processing their backyard corn into an excessively sweet syrup that would help keep foods moist and fresh. It was a transparent, golden syrup with, as they advertised, “an innocuous flavor and very little to prevent the home cook from wanting it desperately.” They sold it in mason jars for $2/quart, and they called it high fructose corn syrup.

Jake Kirkland was not the first to make high fructose corn syrup, or HFCS. (In 1957, Richard O. Marshall and Earl R. Kooi described the process in an article in Science, and we may safely assume that Kirkland had read the article.) But Kirkland was the first to market the product successfully, eventually making Gnaw Bone “the sweetest township in Indiana,” even though it is, in fact, still unincorporated to this day. Kirkland’s marketing prowess showed itself most clearly in his company’s name, a name both easy to remember and unusual enough to stand out in conversation. It’s not clear where the name came from, whether the corn kernels that sometimes caught in the sugaring machine, or the effect of the syrup on the human body, but Kirkland was certainly influenced by the Karo Company’s famous 1949 “Karo Kookery,” a low-fructose corn syrup cookbook, when he replaced the standard ‘C’ with a ‘K,’ creating the now-famous “Khunk Syrups.”

With popularity, however, came temptation. As all successful cottage entrepreneurs understand, multinational corporations inevitably want to buy your product, your name, and your livelihood for untold millions. Most refuse, which is why there are so many poor people, but Kirkland was a savvy businessman and so, in 1978, after twenty years of local, organic high-fructose sweetener, residents of Gnaw Bone watched the dismantling of the famous Khunk Stand.

The company was sold to Kraft, who changed the spelling to “Chunk®” and started pushing corn syrup on the Coca-Cola and Pepsi bottling companies. By 1984, the two companies had switched over entirely from sugar to HFCS, partly because of the corn lobby’s successful tariff on foreign sugarcane. Chunk® Syrups’ stock soared, and corn growers, commonly called “farmers,” were overjoyed. As they had dreamed, the next two decades saw Americans’ annual consumption of sugar increase by 30 pounds. This gave them a cheaper way to get rid of their surplus corn than shooting it into space, which they had been doing since Earl Butz’s reign in the USDA.

There was so much corn, though, that even the combined efforts of Coca-Cola and Pepsi’s armies of long-spooned syrup-dissolvers couldn’t get rid of it all. The factories, overwhelmed by the influx, kept producing, to the point where President Reagan considered a bill to empty Lake Erie in order to create more storage space. Here, faced with an innocuously flavored lake of sweetness, my agency came in. With the announced intention of moving more sweetener for the corporations and their lackeys at the USDA, I decided to go undercover as a meth addict in southern Indiana. Monsanto, Cargill, and Archer Daniels Midland had teamed up in a historic effort to develop a highly addictive form of HFCS, and I pushed this product, starting in the rolling hills of Indiana and taking the movement eastward, then northward, then westward and finally, once I hit California, southward. I extolled the pleasures of the new upper to high schoolers and sailors alike. It didn’t take long for enterprising young dropouts to figure out how to make it on their own. Surprisingly, this increased the market for corn, because when these Chunk addicts or “Chunkies,” as they came to be called, stole whole silos worth with their honest brothers’ tractors, these tractor-owning, honest brothers forced them to send checks to the farmers. And when the honest brothers failed to make their Chunky kin pay, the CIA chipped in, maintaining the web of black market corn trade.

Why, one might ask, would the CIA want to maintain a lucrative, untaxed economy among the disenfranchised and imprudent?

Why would the Food and Drug Administration allow a product whose addictive qualities are unparalleled and which has decimated the prosperity of tenant lawyers and the American South alike, as sweet tea, especially the extremely addictive Milo’s brand, has become an almost silent killer?

Why would the U.S. government implement a product, legal or illegal, that permanently congealed the lower and middle classes by placating their ambitions for a better life despite the Supreme Court’s rulings that marketing to minors, sailors and hairdressers is unconstitutional?

Why would we, as a society, so readily accept what some suggest is a gateway food to the consumption of ever more calories and a product which, even more likely, is used by its manufacturers to promote and distribute even harder narcotics like cocaine, heroine and Pixar sticks, the latest vogue in designer drugs, which contain a computer-generated powder that is usually snorted and comes in a variety of really great colors?

The answer, my naïve but hopeful readers, is sweetness. They simply want to brighten our days. In their blessed innocence, our country’s great corporations and their friends in government long to give each of us the taste of sunshine that’s been milled and processed and blended into a highly concentrated form. They are doing all they can to offer us something in our workaday lives to look forward to. This is especially important in the American South, where a history of exploitation by the northerners, first as they bought cotton and sugar while decrying slavery, later as they drank Coke while criticizing union busting, has given the South special need for sweetness. If the consequence is that our great country becomes obese and diabetic, that is a price our leaders are willing to pay. The citizens of America, especially the huddled masses yearning to breathe free, must not become dissatisfied with the mediocrity of their lots, must not join the sailors and hairdressers in their adventuresome lives of discovery – must not, on a diet of whole wheat and molasses, find the strength to stir and look around, rise with rake and hoe, and become jaded in the failure of their revolution. Therefore let my hand in high fructose corn syrup not be sign of defeat. Let my dealings in sweetness be a celebration of all that is light, and good, and fairly pleasant in the moment of consumption. Though I have not saved the world, I can say at least that I have helped provide our people with a brief, blissful lassitude by way of the addictive upper still affectionately known as “Khunk.”

Irregular Lectures III

The next installment of Gould's Irregular Lectures will be this Friday, July 13, 7:30 pm at the Alex and Kit's House of Knowing. On violin will be Kit Boulding. On the underground high fructose corn syrup market will be Gould by way of Alex Chambers. On photography will be Colin Stearns. And on their vegetable-powered travels through the jungles of America's medium-sized cities, playing music and searching for satisfaction to the gauntlet thrown down by environmental collapse, will be The Break Free Project. Plus, they'll be filming for a documentary.

Send us an email at fachambers@gmail.com for more information.

To Be Addressed

Here we list Themes to be addressed in the future. We invite you to join us in contemplating these Themes; if you find yourself with Knowledge or even just Information to share related to these Themes, do let us know. We'll do our damnedest to make that Knowledge and/or Information public.

The South and its Civilization

Repetition for Fun and and Profit

Babies

Christians, Happy and Otherwise

Musical Mistakes of Terrible Consequence

Cultural In-Laws

Disease: Yay or Nay?

Old Technologies Made New (i.e., Vinyl, Hand Tools, Fire)

Lost Love

Grit

Mistakes We Won't Repeat

Robots

Tattoos

Tatooine

The Pastoral

Lying

Odor (both its history and its political influence)

Food (Local, Flesh, Blue Raspberry)

Tuscaloosa, AL

Superheroes

Miscellaneous

The Wheat Wars

AN HISTORICAL SKETCH

OF

THE RISE AND FALL OF WHEAT

IN THE

TWENTIETH CENTURY

WITH SPECIAL ATTENTION GIVEN TO

THE ROLE OF THE AUTHOR

IN THE

ADVENTURES DESCRIBED HEREIN

BY

ERASMUS GOULD

Widely referenced but rarely understood, the Wheat Crisis of 1973 came close to bringing the economic machinery of the United States to a grinding halt. In the half-century of the Tepid War, the Crisis may have been the most influential event, contributing to the brief recovery of wheat’s ascendancy and, ultimately, to its fall before the golden throne of corn. The primary players were, of course, the magnates of the industries and for a time the Nixon administration, who played the grains off each other for years. My own involvement has been a subject of dispute since the hours following the Crisis, and so I write this historical sketch in the hopes that my name might be cleared of the ignominy and dust it has accumulated in the years since.

By the year of the Crisis, white flour had been common in kitchens for almost a century, the invention of the porcelain roller mill in 187o having enabled the mass production of this minor evil. As my great-grandfather William Graham Gould had predicted in his fiery sermons, a wave of malnutrition pillaged the souls of London for the next two-and-a-half score years, yet few connect this with the dearth of bran. As Industry tightened its grip on the West’s economy, white bread made its way into the hearts and minds of Britain and America, reaching its apex with the advent of the 1950s and the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s canny placement of agent Donna Reed at the forefront of American television. With her clean dress and fluffy smile, Reed embodied the values the Taggart Baking Company hoped to impose on the nation through Wonder Bread, and it worked, cementing the popularity of white flour.

It is here that the history becomes more complicated. The Crisis developed from two forces, both competing with the hale but naïve whole wheat for control of American calories. White flour, with its promises of glamour and ease, was, of course, one. The other was corn, yellow, geometric, and sweet, and destined to be a scourge upon our people.

In 1968, the Minneapolis City Council saw the threat corn posed to the reign of wheat. The city had grown around its mills, especially its largest mill, the Washburn “A,” built in 1874 by Cadwallader C. Washburn. Cadwallader C. Washburn: cofounder of General Mills, a hero to the breadbakers of America, and subject of the barroom ballad that begins “Who wouldn’t have wanted to sleep with or be / The ingenious millmeister Cadwallader C.?” A number of city council members happened upon a Jethro Tull concert, and the post-pastoral flute music of Ian Anderson gave rise to visions of the band’s namesake, the early modern agronomist and inventor of the seed drill who heralded the beginning of the end of the small family farm. Rallied by the memory of this malicious figure, the council voted to hire the author to undermine, both figuratively, and, as was later agreed would be most effective, literally, the Minnesota corn industry. Thus was the mission begun. The author set out in a Buick Invicta presented to him by F., a member of the council, in which had been placed three secret items for times of need: a Gatling gun that rose from the hood, a red button which would transform the vehicle in the space of only twenty-three hours into a crop-duster, and a sandwich in the glove compartment for a single late night emergency. The author drove the state for four years, stumping by day for einkorn, emmer, and other wheats, and tunneling, by night, with a pickaxe and spade under the cornfields of the north.

This author had some success. Tunneling allowed me not only to determine, clandestinely, the extent of corn’s acreage in Minnesota, but to cut through its roots, destroying the domestic enemy’s crops one by one. I expanded my operations to Iowa, the seat of corn, and through a number of other states as well. Unfortunately, with success inevitably comes ill will, and so, during those years, I developed a number of enemies, not least of whom was Eugene “Pickleface” Mott, a municipal bureaucrat of Des Moines whose agents were soon able to predict my every move before even I knew what it might be. Our standoff occurred in October 1972, and, as some have argued, was the beginning of the end of American wheat.

Certain details of the Tepid War should be noted here, for a complete understanding of the significance of the Crisis. As the camps of the two grains battled for dominance in the American psyche, both began developing vast arsenals of their respective products, stockpiling them in underground silos in the northern plains states. During this period the major flour mills were connected with long tunnels, deep underground, to facilitate, in the event of nuclear fallout, the escape of workers and the continual free movement of gluten from one city to another. Rumors, which have yet to be substantiated, began circulating that the Flour Tunnels, as they came to be called, connected also to the missile silos of the American nuclear arsenal, which were often situated on the same sites as the grain silos for quick snacks. This would not have been a problem but for the tendency of fine starchy dust, suspended in air, to combust, when ignited, in dangerously sudden conflagrations. Had such a conflagration occurred in one mill, it could have, it was thought, sent an explosion thundering through the Flour Tunnels to destroy the mills of other cities, as well as the nuclear missiles so wantonly placed in the innocent Midwest. My experience inadvertently proved that, thankfully, this was not the case.

Early in the autumn of 1972, the USSR purchased 30 million tons of American grain after a few years of disastrous communist harvests. There was concern about the ability of our flour mills to continue their production, and so I was sent on a special mission to General Mills’ great “J” Mill, successor of Cadwallader Washburn’s Minneapolis “A” Mill, shut down for good in 1965, with the intent of securing their production against sabotage in this time of scarcity. As, in retrospect, I should have foreseen, Pickleface Mott’s agent preceded me there, and having bound and gagged the entire workforce, waited in a bin of wheat germ for my arrival. As soon as I stepped foot in the mill, I knew something was amiss. The workers were lying on the floor and an eerie silence pervaded the building. It was at this moment, while I stood among the machinery, puzzling out the situation, that Mott’s agent chose to leap on me from behind. Memory is a fickle lover, mine as inconstant as the next man’s, but the workers who survived say we struggled for at least ten minutes, each trying to force the other under the still-rolling porcelain mill, until one of us threw the main switch and everything went dark. My only recollection is that I managed to escape the agent’s warm and malicious embrace with a swift, chance blow to the collarbone and that, in my heightened emotional state, I felt the need to gaze, for a moment, at the complex, nutritious grain that had been the seed of civilization in the Fertile Crescent so many years before. I struck a match, and the next thing I knew, I was lying in the ruins of General Mills’ last great factory, flesh filled with the ceramic shrapnel of white flour’s enabling machine, as I watched for the mushroom clouds that had to follow. Yet the horizon stayed clear, and I realized, then, that although we had again avoided total annihilation, the American diet would never be the same.

Between the Soviet purchase and my alleged destruction of the “J” Mill, the price of grain rose rapidly, encouraging farmers to produce more of their newly valuable products, but causing restlessness, by the time the prices hit supermarkets in 1973, among household shoppers. This financial dissatisfaction was exacerbated by the oil crisis the following fall. To appease consumers, Richard Nixon’s Secretary of Agriculture, Earl Butz, stepped in to lower the price of corn. He abolished the Ever-Normal Granary, where the government stored borrowed corn, and instead paid farmers directly for the golden kernels scraped from their ears. This allowed the government, under the direction of Butz, continually to lower the target price of corn, thus necessitating that farmers grow increasingly larger volumes of grain to earn back their financial and emotional investments. Farmers had to find new ways to dispose of their products.

The crisis for whole wheat lay in the worries that, with the loss of the porcelain roller mills, consumers, forced to rely solely on whole wheat, would forego that grain for rye, quinoa, or another more obscure grain, resulting in the wholesale destruction of wheat agriculture. Luckily, through the ingenuity of certain influential bakers, methods were developed for making chewable whole wheat bread that actually tasted good (which was unheard of before 1977), and a black market for porcelain rollers arose, allowing the sale of white flour, if not on the open market, at least to bakers in the know, willing to pay the right price. Certainly, the power that flour had once held over the American soul could last only in the iconography of the baguette and the Big Mac bun. No longer would it hold sway in national politics as it once had.

Corn, on the other hand, became a blessing and a curse for the farmers growing it, and that difficulty continues to this day. Pressured constantly by falling prices, farmers have been growing ever higher yields, forcing industry and the government to find new ways to get rid of it. Corn has found its way into cattle feed, chicken feed, and hog feed, making these animals essentially corn with motor control. Corn has insinuated itself into our power supplies, our soft drinks and our cereals. In desperation, my research shows, the CIA has attempted to sell corn to the minors, to the poor, and to sailors (each of which the Supreme Court has found unconstitutional). The propaganda is overwhelming, and this, I must admit, has been my greatest failure. I did not foresee the cultural influence of the U.S. Department of Agriculture, and the involvement of Central Intelligence. While I held up a kernel of wheat and wondered at its history, its power, its nutrients, the CIA was allowing corn syrup to be manufactured in home laboratories in rural Indiana and had released it in the back streets of Hoboken, as an especially addictive upper known to itinerants and hair dressers as “chunk.” In closing, I apologize to anyone wasting away on the golden evil who finds this, for the part I played in its rise.

The East India Heist

Tea and the Origins of the Department Store

It is widely accepted that the East India Co., which shipped tea in huge quantities from China, was a front for a more lucrative business. This conclusion has been drawn, on multiple occasions and from various sources [need cite], from the obvious fact that no company, no matter how laissez-faire the contemporary world economy, could become so all-consumingly powerful on the basis of a hot drink. What scholars have not been able to establish is for what the Company was a front.

This question intrigued me, and led me to a study of the unrecognized fount of all modern knowledge – the Cabinet of Wonder – and its implications for the early modern department store. The Cabinet of Wonder was indeed no Cabinet at all. Cabinets of Wonder were in fact whole rooms, sometimes multiple rooms, full of natural oddities, mechanical curiosities, exotic inventions and terrible disguises (including, in one case, the famous lemming suit of King Frederick III, collected from his bloated corpse after he leaped into the ocean to prevent the Turks from discovering his true identity). The ostensible purpose of such great cabineteers as Ole Worm (1588-1654) and Elias Ashmole (1617-1692) was the collection and dissemination of knowledge. In this sense the cabinets were the precursors to the modern-day museum. But my research has found a darker and more sinister purpose behind them. They were showrooms, it turns out, not just for the dissemination but for the sale of “objects informative, and thinges wonderful and awe-filled” in the words of one Ashmolean broadside. Through their cabinets, these men amassed huge storehouses of gold and awe, which they hoarded until their deaths. The volume of wonder they accumulated would have been incomprehensible only decades before.

Elias Ashmole was the second of the great cabineteers and, of the two I’ve mentioned, made for himself the greatest fortune. The bulk of his collection came from a naturalist and collector named John Tradescant the Younger, who himself had inherited the collection of his father, John Tradescant the Elder. The collection consisted of books, coins, weapons, costumes, taxidermy, natural objects. There were plum pits carved with religious iconography and the ceremonial cloak of Chief Powhatan. Undoubtedly an impressive collection of stuff, and he had visitors from all over Europe asking to see his fruit stones. But there was a point at which the nature of the requests changed. The moment can be dated to a 1673 letter from a Mrs. Elspeth Churchill, inquiring as to whether she might purchase the Horn of Mary of Saughall. Here Ashmole’s mercenary gaze fell upon an unexploited niche. He wrote in his diary “This is the day, when I shall make a fortune, in horns.” And he immediately went about developing “a process for the manufacture of a hornish similitude,” a process that, he soon discovered, was prohibitively expensive at the going rates for British orphans, but which, if China was the source, became affordable for client and purveyor alike. He understood, too, that if anyone were to discover that what they owned was simply a replica of the wonder that comes with a real human horn, his cabinet would be stormed by a mob of angry early modern aesthetes. And so he began work cultivating an interest in the boiled leaves of the Camellia sinensis plant, which could only be found in China and would provide excellent cover for crates upon crates of one-of-a-kind curios.

As one may guess, his business grew exponentially, with the side benefit of the invention of scones to go along with the bitter tea so many English peoples were forcing themselves to drink.

Wonder was now widely available for household use, and that period saw the development of many companies we’re familiar with today, including Bed, Bath and Beyond (originally “Beds for Bath and Beyonde,” supplying mattresses stuffed with the firm yet supple leaves of the tea plant to upper-class towns like Bath) and Target, whose name arose from its fleet of exceptionally fast galleons aspiring to give chase to pirates – and I might add that the company is still too fast to be pirated, moving both products and stores at unnaturally high speeds – and is not named, as many think, for Pierre Target, who was actually one of the 18^th-century founders of Wal-Market.

Most of these companies went underground for a few centuries, realizing wonder was better produced in secret alchemical laboratories than by the ignorant peasants of China, though tea itself kept flowing. Cabinets of wonder continued in such places as palaces and museums. Some well-known examples from more recent times include Millard Fillmore’s Know-Nothing Bathroom in the mid-19^th-century White House, the Smithsonian Natural History Museum (with a number of excellent gift-shops), and the Museum of Jurassic Technology in Los Angeles.

Of course, in recent years these companies have undermined their original sources of revenue – wonder and awe – by letting the fact of mass-production slip into the public’s consciousness, and have left us with cardboard facsimiles of the experience. These experiences, as we well know, can only, today, be reproduced through the undying espionage of great spies willing to sacrifice love and limb in search of the modern world’s final mysteries. They must dodge the bullets of cynicism and disarm the mortars of doubt to bring us the few wonders we have yet to apprehend, and I only ask that my colleagues continue, like my self, to offer these sources of awe to the parched and desperate public for free, or at least a reduced charge.