Colby heartily agreed.
“And most of all, to my wife.”
* * *
—
So, with my blessing and my money, Ned and Colby went to work finding foods that would make it more convenient for families to cook and eat. Over the next couple of years, we bought dozens of new products and brands to fold into the Post Cereal Company. We bought companies called Jell-O, Minute Tapioca, and Hostess, which meant that suddenly we would be offering premade desserts. We bought another company called Log Cabin, which gave us product lines like syrup and sauce. We bought a company called Hellmann’s, bringing us into the market for new and ready-made condiments such as mayonnaise and other spreads. Seeing how popular ready-made drinks were also becoming, we bought two companies called Kool-Aid and Tang. And then, even though I detested the stuff—just like my father before me—I came around and signed off on a check to buy Maxwell House Coffee.
Ned was right: we were so much more than simply breakfast. And we kept on buying; we kept on growing. We snatched up companies to make premade cakes, laundry detergent, instant rice, baking powder, kitchen soaps. If it was going to make the mundane chores of life easier and quicker, then we would make it available to the masses. And, we suspected, people would buy it. And buy it they did. Within just a few years, our sales had surged to nearly $60 million in a single year.
Ned was ebullient, and so was I. He had a favorite refrain that he’d declare on his way out the door each morning, kissing Deenie and then me as he headed to our new Post headquarters on Park Avenue: “With my luck and your brain, Marjie, the world is ours.” That was how we felt. It was the Roaring Twenties. America was rich, and we were the richest. I, Marjorie Merriweather Post, had the golden touch of Midas and the youthful vivacity of Marie Antoinette.
The only thing I lacked was the foresight to see that both of those figures eventually brought about their own dooms.
Chapter 25
Gloucester, Massachusetts
“Call me Captain Hutton.” My husband slipped the captain’s hat atop his dark blond waves, and when it settled over his carefree grin at a rakish angle, the stubble of his three-day beard darkening his suntanned cheeks, I would have called him anything he wanted.
“You may be captain,” I said, a wry smile tugging on my lips. “But just know that this first mate is not going to eat canned foods at sea.” And with that, I turned and looked back over the bobbing New England coastline.
We’d bought a yacht, a gleaming schooner with the power of six hundred horses and the comfort of a fine floating hotel, with plenty of room on board and half a dozen spacious stateroom suites. Ned and I had decided to spend the summer with Deenie on the water, setting off from New York and pulling in for stops at all the quaint, salt-stained harbor towns from Cape May up to Bar Harbor.
It was during that summer, while dreading the occasional nights that we had to spend away from shore, away from clean restaurants with fresh, healthy food, that I had a new idea. “Ned, why don’t we think about frozen food?”
“What?” Ned looked at me askance.
It was an overcast day, and we were skimming the gray Atlantic somewhere near the fishing town of Gloucester, Massachusetts. I could see a scattering of redbrick buildings and a squat white lighthouse on the coast, the seagulls cawing overhead as they made their loops, scanning the rocks for food. I turned back toward my husband as I said, “I heard the idea from Chef, while he and I were meeting to plan our next few days of meals.”
“Frozen?” Ned looked as if the word itself tasted rancid in his mouth.
But I went on: “Yes, frozen. There’s a fellow who lives out here, a local fisherman by the name of Clarence Birdseye. He has a factory where he freezes fish. Just a local guy with a modest outfit, sells to the people in the area. But I’d like to see his operation.”
Ned looked disinterested. Overhead a seagull cawed, then plunged into the water right before us.
“Come on, Ned. It’s a cloudy day anyway. Too cold to swim. Let’s go visit this Birdseye fellow. Perhaps we can buy something to bring aboard for supper.”
And so we did, taking a small skiff into the cove and paying an unannounced house call to the local facility known as Birdseye Frozen Foods.
* * *
—
Clarence Birdseye was a friendly, unassuming man, with ruddy weathered skin and a rolling manner of speech that surely came from the many years he’d spent up north in Canada, fishing through frozen waters and hunting for wild game in the ice and snow. Mr. Birdseye didn’t react with any particular interest when I introduced myself, but his quick nod told me that he recognized my name.