Wonder Bread

I remember enjoying it as a child, but only in vague memories. It had a soft consistency and a slight yeast taste, not strong enough to offend my youthful taste buds, but not bland enough to bore them. The best description would be delightfully plain, a processed staple like a Twinkie bar. It's spotted packaging is familiar, like an actors face that you can't put a name to and wouldn't bother with the effort. its colored dots with a white background give its plastic packaging a solid color, different from clear wrappings of other brands. Nothing is out of place from its presence, even when standing out. It's appearance on grocery store shelves is expected, iconic. The sliced bread is cut in perfect strips, the sliced breadiest sliced bread. Memories of cheap sandwiches in suburban summer cookouts. Quick packed kindergarten lunches. A slight golden toaster tinge topped with processed grape jelly. Its image is sanitary, boring, perfect, and perhaps a little too much of those things. Many scoff at the white packages at the store, see them as too commercial, dated, and bland. Most would prefer artesian whole wheat. That's the paradox of wonder bread, its shiny white clean, too spotless to be perfect and too perfect to be spotless.