Cream of EWWWWWWWWWW!!!

By Cornelia

Henry Miller once wrote, ``my people were entirely Nordic, which is to say idiots ." I concur fully, if only in the culinary arena.

Your average WASP can boil, overcook, underseason and otherwise torture and mutilate even the most sublime of foodstuffs (from filet mignon to beefsteak tomatoes fresh from the garden) such that they become merely a series of identical, flavor-free, stucco-colored porridges.

What's more, he or she can do this while blindfolded and with a gin and tonic in each hand.




I have long subscribed to the theory that the global Manifest Destiny delusion of the Anglo-Saxon peoples was fueled by their lack of a ``soul food.'' Let's face it, every other culture has at least one dish which qualifies as a tribal identifier-- some exquisite preparation which proclaims a group's unity, tradition, and talent. African-Americans have a panoply: ribs, hot links, magnificently rendered greens such as collards. The sobriquet soul food was justly coined to describe these flavorful contributions to the world's table.

Denizens of the Indian subcontinent have what Westerners mistakenly call "curries" (a corruption of a word describing a dish with gravy), and wondrous regional breads such as idlis, chuppatis, pooris, and naan.



The French have crusty baguettes, wines of great stature, cheeses, and many other offerings instantly recognizable as having a Gallic flair.



Italy is renowned for pasta, China for splendidly wokked preparations by the thousand, Japan for sushi and beyond,



Thailand for pad thai and satay, Korea for heady garlic-spiked mouth "happenings" (little wonder that they are referred to as "Garlic Eaters" by the Japanese, as all James Clavell fans know). Even the Swiss, God knows not the most eccentric people on the planet, have contributed fondue and raclette.



But whither the English, and by extension their culinary partners in crime, the Irish, Welsh, and Scottish? What ex-pat in full possession of his or her mental faculties could possibly yearn for haggis?



How did it happen that one of the only edible things in Eire is bread? Food historian Waverley Root did extensive books on the culinary histories of Italy and France, respectively, but it should come as no surprise that he penned no tertiary volume devoted to the evolution of Brit grub.

I staunchly believe this elemental lack to be what drove Britannia's people to the ends of the earth. The British East India Company, for instance, must credit its success to its every member's burning desire to seek out and find an edible meal, or at the very least to escape the pap masquerading as food back on ``this scepter'd isle, this England.''

Who could, after all, blame Shackleton for preferring roasted sled dog to the average pub lunch, or Sir Richard Burton for disguising himself as a native and journeying into the desert in order to get his hands on some half-decent hummous?




Sadly, this pitiful excuse for a cuisine is what has formed the backbone of American cooking. I hold the British palate, as filtered through the Puritan Ethic of self-denial, as squarely responsible for such travesties as Howard Johnson's, TV dinners, and Miracle Whip--to say nothing of the Mid-Western fantasy that Jell-O is a salad.



But the single greatest evil spawned by centuries of Anglo-Saxon ineptitude in the kitchen is Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup, which is to food what Reader's Digest Condensed Books are to literature. This quivering, beige, gelatinous mass has bludgeoned more food into a state of submissive Philboyd Studge-like slop than has the world production of SPAM and catsup combined.

After all, why should any self-respecting WASP try to master the intricacies of a bearnaise sauce, or even a bechamel, when just dumping a can of Campbell's in the pot, tureen, or casserole is so much easier? It's a broad spectrum appetite-o-cide which can be used with equal effectiveness to ruin stroganoff, tetrazzini, swedish meatballs, tuna, or innocent chicken breasts. If only it could be ladled over iceberg lettuce and topped with Chun King crunchy noodles, no other foodstuff would be required by the synchronized swimmers in my gene pool.



Little wonder, then, that Andy Warhol summed up the banality of our cultural ethos by rendering a Campbell's can (though I wonder why he chose tomato--must be that wacky bohemian thing).

If, as a nation, we want to raise the culinary bar, the greatest single action we could undertake would be to ban the manufacture, distribution, and sale of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup. Certainly, prohibition has historically given rise to black markets, smuggling, and dealings in unbonded goods, but handing the Mob carte blanche to develop an underground soup economy would divert them from hawking more fully toxic products, at the very least.

I urge you to join me in this worthy crusade by dumping any Cream of Mushroom you or a loved one might have directly down the kitchen sink (don't put your compost pile at risk...). When we build a grassroots groundswell, we can be more direct--grabbing up our hatchets like Carrie Nation and busting into the dens of banality still harboring this Satan's brew. Your children, and their children, will thank you.