Newfangled was the brand of the brand I was shoving into my face when the older of my two older brothers made his way through what we called the dining room on his way from wherever he'd been to wherever he was going. He'd always been somewhere and going somewhere else. Sporting what must've been an irrepressible motor, he was probably home for a shower before he headed to wherever would lead to the need for another.
We briefly bonded over an appreciation for this act of gluttonous intermission. This was no abstraction, there was no generalized contextualization, but a clear-cut ode to the expeditious clearing of a can of this very substance, wherewith he would relate he could relate to being where I was and doing precisely what I was doing, potato'd on the couch watching whatever and placing stacks of reconstituted foodstuff into a hole somewhere just beneath my nose, mashing more than chewing as the salted starch melted onto my tongue just barely before I repeated stacking and shoving so as not to risk an unsteady presence of product along the chain of hand, mouth, gullet and gut.
