There is a regrettable - albeit slightly amusing - story behind green bean casserole at chez DL. Some years ago we were living in group house chock-a-full of preoccupied - but interesting - graduate students. One of the few benefits of that particular living arrangement was that, by some quirk of interstellar fate, a number of us actually liked to cook. This was our first Thanksgiving together, and we were all going to contribute a family (or traditional) dish to the common table to go along with our 22 lb turkey. 22 lbs? Yes. We had 20 people for dinner, which as you might imagine, makes what follows particularly painful.

I had been locked away working on a classic, a closely held family recipe, only emerging on occasion to talk about what a revelation it was to be for everyone when they tasted it. I, literally, used that word. Revelation. I also used the words: secret, my mother’s recipe, and a classic family tradition.

Some little while after we wrangled the turkey out of the oven, and gathered the multitudes at the table (well…tables…lots and lots of card tables lined up end-to-end), I slipped into the kitchen unnoticed, rummaged around, and then with great fanfare, swept into the dinning room announcing the pièce de résistance of the evening.

me: laaadddiiiees and gentlllllllemen, I present what can only be called a unique expression of family ingenuity, a dish passed down generation to generation, and to me at my mother’s knee…

the multitude:

me: huh? huh? Good huh?

the multitude:

Utter.

Complete.

Silence.

For about ten seconds. At second eleven, the laughter began. At second twelve, the first of seven people fell out her chair, tears streaming down her face. At second thirteen, the mocking began.

me:

Sitting at the place of honor on the table was the most picture perfect green bean casserole ever created, glistening green and cream, topped with golden brown French’s fried onions.

Somewhere in the next several minutes, as people picked themselves off the floor, returned from walking around and getting their breath back, I learned that not only did every household in America make the green bean casserole but that the instructions were printed on the side of every single can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup sold in the United States (a fact I seem to have missed in my intentness to read and follow every direction on the yellowed scrap of paper I had kept on my person for weeks).

And on Thanksgiving, every single year since (and it has been fifteen or so), I receive at least two phone calls from people giving me grief. Everybody still finds it hee lar ee us.

This year, in an effort to redeem myself, I did a version that had nothing whatsoever to do with Campbell or French’s. Oh no…I bought green beans; I used shitake mushrooms; I made chicken stock; I cooked flour; I FRIED ONIONS for god’s sake; I coddled, stirred, cooed, and finally baked a superb rendition of the classic.

I served it very quietly, and was pleased that no one seemed to notice.

But, you know what? It was really good.