It has recently come to my attention that not everyone is aware that Hawaiian haystacks are a Utah/Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints diaspora delicacy.
There's a whole lot of noise about Jell-o and fry sauce and funeral potatoes and my people claiming those as our own. But, in my opinion, we should be prouder of the Hawaiian haystacks than any of those other "foods," and I'm worried we're letting Hawaii take the credit for arguably our greatest invention.
Move over, Philo T. Farnsworth and take your television with you.
Hawaiian haystacks are not Hawaiian in the same way French toast and fries are not French. We call them Hawaiian, I think, because one of the ingredients is pineapple. That is if you can call the components of Hawaiian haystacks ingredients. Hawaiian haystacks aren't cooked so much as assembled. Typically, the dish's foundation is a mound of sticky rice, topped with diced chicken in a beige goop — often from a can of cream of chicken soup — celery, scallions if you're fancy, diced tomatoes, dried cranberries if you're crazy, coconut if you're even crazier, peas, which are perhaps the most controversial component that I happen to love, maybe olives, maybe mandarin oranges, pineapple, cheese, and finally, chow mein noodles.
The chow mein noodles are as nonnegotiable as the rice. In fact, I would argue that the chow mein noodles are what give Hawaiian haystacks their haystackiness, visually. And they add a necessary crunch to what is, otherwise, let's be honest, a pile of slop. Delicious slop, but slop. The crunchy, brown noodles provide enough variety to elevate the tasting experience, whether that tasting is at a dining room table, under a pavilion during a ward linger longer, or in a Utah elementary school cafeteria, which is where I was first blessed with this comestible sensation for the senses.
As with all regional legacies, the origins of the Hawaiian Haystack are murky. Theories as to why this food phenomenon rose out of Utah include the buffet-and-potluck-friendly nature of the meal, which makes it an ideal offering for ward parties and or youth activities. It also utilizes rice and canned chicken, two staples in food storage pantries, of which members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints have many. But who it was, exactly, that first shoveled this particular arrangement of starch, sauce, protein, produce and chow mein noodles onto a plate and coined it Hawaiian is a mystery.
Because there is no one originator I or the internet can point to, I have to assume the formula for the haystacks has been passed through generations like the tales of the Olympians recited by ancient Greek orators and their choruses. It's no longer a recipe. It's an innate knowledge within all of us who have ever crossed into our state lines or set foot in a Latter-day Saint meetinghouse. If you were born in Utah, and also the surrounding states probably, Hawaiian haystacks are as instinctual as walking and talking.
There are those who claim to not enjoy the meal, and typically, in my experience, it's because they take issue with the dish's reliance on canned gravy/soup/gloop. And to those people I say, nay ask, have you tried the Mel's Kitchen Cafe recipe for homemade cream of chicken? Because you really should. In it, Mel details how to make a roux into a gravy and add fresh-cooked chicken. And not in a Martha Stewart way that requires you to purchase a specialty item that they only sell in one store in the Hamptons. More in a you for sure have these ingredients in your pantry at home kind of way.
If the gravy is homemade, and the rice is hot, and the chow mein noodles aren't stale — which is a real danger given a lot of us only use them for the Hawaiian haystacks we make once a year — there's no way anyone can take issue with this perfect meal. Except for maybe the name.
Because why are we giving Hawaii the credit? It already has beautiful beaches and exciting wildlife and lush landscapes. Does it really need this, too? Are we missing out on valuable tourist income by letting the name stay as it is? If we called them Utah haystacks, we may become more of a destination, despite our lack of beaches and whales and our generally brown landscape. We may not have surfing or luaus, but we have crunchy rice piles, and if that's not worth planning a vacation around, I don't know what is.
So this is my formal request that we get a petition going to rename our best food to something that reflects its legacy. I don't really know how to do that, though. Someone send this to the governor I guess?