I was in the supermarket yesterday, waiting in line to pay. A haggard-looking man asked me if I knew what was in a string bean casserole.
“Sure,” I said, and told him: string beans, cream of mushroom soup, and french-fried onion rings. (My sister used to insist I make this for every family gathering.)
Thanks, he said, and went off to find the ingredients.
He returned with a customer service rep: “Are the onions in the freezer section?”
No, they come in a can, I said. He went off to look again. When they finally found them, he returned to the back of the line. “How long do I cook these?” he wanted to know.
“Do you have a computer?”
Yes, he said.
“You can find all that online.”
“Okay, thanks. It’s my turn to cook for the guys in work, and one of them really wants this string bean casserole. I never made it before,” he said. He was wearing a Parking Authority shirt. Do they work in shifts, like a firehouse? I guess I’ll never know.
Green bean casserole. Were you the only person in the market? Or were you the only WOMAN in the market? What a sexist creep this guy was. Watch out, the next time this guy might want to know how to do a load of laundry?
I thought they put the recipe right on the cans for the onions, because isn’t that about 99% of where those things end up?
If he saw me in line (usually the express line) and saw my purchases, the first thing he would have known about me is that I can’t cook. I go months without using my stove or oven. Even the microwave only gets occasional use. And even so, I still would have been able to figure out how to make string bean casserole. I’m thinking he lives or works in some sort of halfway house for the less bright folks.
Mmmmm, green bean casserole. Okay, okay don’t hate me. I’d be interested to know what else was on the menu.
I don’t know. All I know is, he was a nervous wreck over making this casserole.