
I have never bought a can of cream of mushroom soup. I have never willingly consumed it. I will never buy a can of cream of mushroom soup. That is my mantra. If I could embroider I would probably have a cross-stitched pillow or two that announced this aversion. It might be genetic – my mother never used that staple of 1960s cooking, although she was fond of Jell-o molds. I doubt if my children have ever cooked with mushroom soup – although I have never asked them directly – I am employing delicate generational diplomacy: some things are private.
Not willingly eating mushroom soup has never made me popular at Thanksgiving, when everyone in the United States whips up their secret family recipe for Green Bean Casserole, which involves cooking perfectly delicious and crunchy green beans in a white Corning Ware casserole dish, smothered in a chemical septic field of gray mushroom slop, topped with canned fried onions. At Thanksgiving we should be giving thanks for the wonderful bounty of nature – not for PFAS, sodium nitrates, and other preservatives.
As a child I did not care for cooked vegetables, with the exception of corn and potatoes. And pizza. I have always preferred the crisp snap of fresh beans, the cool orbs of peas as they slide out of their pods, and cold, peppery radishes, floating in Pyrex bowls of iced water. It was one of my mother’s super powers that she assigned vegetable duties to me and my brother on the back porch steps in the summertime. It might take us forever to shell the peas, or string the beans, or shuck the corn, but we were quiet, and out of her hair. The price she paid was we might not fill the cooking pot with peas, because we had gobbled a few handfuls as we performed our task: one pea for me, one pea for the pot. The same technique worked with the string beans. We’d break of the ends, eat a few beans, throw the rest into the colander. We ate the greens without Mom hectoring us. Genius. And deelish. Who could eat hot, slimed green beans, dripping with mushroom soup after that childhood exposure to healthy eating?
I almost overlooked an obituary in the New York Times a few years ago. Dorcas Reilly died in New Jersey at 92. Reilly invented the almost ubiquitous Green Bean Casserole that appears on so many Thanksgiving dinner tables. Modestly, Reilly asserted she was just part of the team that developed the dish at Campbell’s Soup in Camden, New Jersey in 1955. They were looking for a tasty, economical side dish. This has just six ingredients, and it can be easily assembled by anyone. It became an institutional classic; it was America at its most homogenous and bland. Campbell’s estimated once that 20 million green bean casseroles would be prepared annually in the United States at Thanksgiving. Imagine being the person who was responsible for such a legacy. Will you have a green bean casserole on your table? Dorcas Reilly obituary
The Original: Campbell’s Green Bean Casserole
1 10 3/4-ounce can of Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup
1/2 cup milk
1 teaspoon soy sauce
A dash of pepper
4 cups cut green beans
1-1/3 cups of French fried onions
Mix soup, milk, soy, pepper, beans and 2/3 cup onions in 1-1/2-quart casserole.
Bake at 350°F for 25 minutes, or until hot. Stir. Sprinkle with remaining onions. Bake five minutes. Serves six.
Here is an alternative: This is a labor-intensive recipe, best brought to a potluck Thanksgiving, when you can boast about making the mushroom sauce from scratch. No sodium-riddled canned soup for you! Green Bean Casserole
I just love these bundles of beans trussed up with ribbons of bacon: Green Bean Bundles
This recipe can be made in advance, but it eliminates all the fun of the French fried onions, and it makes you make bread crumbs! Shocking! Another Green Bean Casserole
Get organized! The Thanksgiving clock is ticking down!
In two short weeks Thanksgiving will be over – except for the best part with the Pilgrim sandwiches, and some leftover pumpkin pie, smuggled cold from the fridge and eaten hastily while standing at the pantry window, looking out over the swirl of black leaves in your childhood home’s back yard.
“As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.”
—John Fitzgerald Kennedy
Jean Dixon Sanders has been a painter and graphic designer for the past thirty years. A graduate of Washington College, where she majored in fine art, Jean started her work in design with the Literary House lecture program. The illustrations she contributes to the Spies are done with watercolor, colored pencil and ink.





































