Jon Burgerman

It’s 1861 and you’re leaving home to fight in a war. You have room for one snack in your gunnysack. What do you bring?

Gummy Bears. Good source of sugar, brightly coloured, might have trace elements of fruit in them, could share them with the enemy and make friends.

It’s 1908 and your dad brings home the first car you’ve ever seen. He tells you to jump in. What snack do you bring on your first car ride?

Ice cream. The test of any good car is how well ice cream comes out of its upholstery. I’m sure Dad would like that too.

It’s 1969 and you’re sitting cross-legged on a shag carpet, watching the moon landing on TV. Which snack fills the large plastic bowl in front of you?

Popcorn. I wolf it down, fist over hand over fist. I truck obscene amounts toward my face. The overspill lands half back in the bowl and half on the carpet around me. There’s popcorn clinging to my wooly jumper. There’s a few pieces in my hair, and there’s always, always some kernel of corn skin stuck between my most hard to reach molars.

It’s New Year’s Eve 1999 and the threat of Y2K is looming. Which snack do you use to calm your nerves?

Jelly (or Jell-o for you Americans). I plunge my Nokia mobile phone and Powerbook into a bathtub of set orange jelly, which was made by using double the advised amount of powder. The Y2K bug can’t penetrate jelly this thick.

It’s 2014 and you’re writing an email. What are you putting into your face?

Almonds, roasted, not salted. I’m a fading member of the youth. I’m worried about how I look. I’m concerned that people think I’m out of shape. No way am I going to go to the gym every day—I’m chronically lazy—but I will make a compromise. Almonds are my side of the deal; stomach, please cohere.

Basic CMYK