which my ang mo friends here in Singapore seem to think is poison. They are paleo, gnawing on jerky and preferring their food to predate the invention of penicillin and deodorant, while Singaporeans, judging from the lines outside the Bread Talk and Toast Box chain bakeries in the mall, remain both unburdened by this sentiment and thinner than my western caveman peers.

Back in Massachusetts a few months ago, my husband and I drove past what used to be the Wonder Bread outlet, but it’s gone, replaced by a vape shop and who knows, maybe it will figure in someone else’s childhood memories? Because the Wonder Bread outlet loomed large in mine. In the ’80s, when my brother and I had been good or maybe when she was particularly peckish, my mother would take us there, to the home of just-expired loaves, slightly smushed Twinkies, and cupcakes with Pollock splashes of icing. The goods were cheaper but just as soft and swoony, earthly angel’s food. We can only hope that a Wonder Bread sandwich with Lynn’s own Fluff and some chunky Jif cut into triangles and left on the kitchen countertop under a damp paper towel is waiting for us all when we die, to assure us we’ve made it to the right place.