At what point did the Pilgrims decide that a nice dish to make for their first-ever Thanksgiving feast would be a casserole of frozen green beans, slathered in Campbells Cream of Mushroom soup, covered in French’s Fried Onions? Where on earth did this dish come from and why do people request it every Thanksgiving? And tell me, how did the Pilgrims open the cans?

For some strange reason, I have never tried the traditional Thanksgiving green bean casserole.  I’d never even heard of it till about five years ago.  The first time I saw it, I was truly shocked that people ate such a thing. It seemed so weird and unlikely that its provenance intrigued me.  I set out to discover where the hell this disgusting concoction came from, and what I found was very interesting.

The delectable green bean casserole is not based on any touching tradition, handed down from our Mayflower forbearers.  It does not celebrate a season of plenty after many winters of deprivation.  It does not even commemorate the miracle of crop growth on land that was previously thought barren.  No, rather, it is the invention of a marketing wizard at Campbell’s Soup who developed it in his company kitchen.

The Thanksgiving classic (which the French’s web site describes as a “delicious veggie dish that even the little ones will love”) is a recipe that was invented for an Associated Press story in 1955.  The big green mess has been a huge profit-center ever since.  Purportedly, Campbell’s sells more than $20 million dollars worth of cream of mushroom soup each year, mostly at Thanksgiving.

I’m curious to know how the guy at Campbell’s came up with this concoction. Did he try a bunch of other combos and then finally, when he was about ready to give up, reach for that dusty can of fried onions that had been sitting on the shelf for ages.  “Hmm, this might be intriguing,” he thought, “maybe I’ll throw this on top.”  A little milk and soy sauce for zip, and taa daa, he had a dish.

Now, more than 54 years later, Campbell’s and French’s, the mustard maker, are forever joined at the hip by the humble green bean casserole.  The dish has achieved an exalted stature in American cuisine, having become an integral part of a uniquely American holiday. I bet Mr. Campbell’s recipe-creator-guy never expected that.

What’s fascinating is how much of Thanksgiving is manufactured tradition.  The story we’re told in school doesn’t even come close to the truth.  The version we buy into today was created around the time that Roosevelt declared Thanksgiving a national holiday (1941) and Norman Rockwell produced his “Freedom From Want” illustration (1943).  At a time of war, after a Great Depression, we liked the idea of celebrating an abundance of food and sharing with others.  The only problem is the official story is based on a lie.

The Pilgrims that arrived on the Mayflower struggled through two winters and nearly starved before turning things around.  They started out trying to establish what amounts to a Socialist state, where some would work on the behalf of all, sharing what was produced equally among all the settlers.  No one wanted to do that, so it took some time until they figured out the free enterprise system.

Squanto had shown them how to grow corn and beans (not green beans) early on, but the settlers didn’t prosper until they figured out a Capitalistic system that would allow each man to own and work land, keeping or selling the proceeds as he saw fit.  That led the settlers to work much harder, produce much more and finally, in the winter of 1621, celebrate their abundance with a big Harvest meal.

The Wampanoags were invited to the first Thanksgiving dinner, but they weren’t honored as the Pilgrims’ saviors.  Indeed, later dinners of Thanks celebrated victories over the Indians in raids.  Decapitated Native heads were reportedly even kicked down the streets of one town.

No turkey was served (there weren’t a lot of wild turkeys around Plymouth), but plenty of other fowl was.  Cranberries weren’t part of the feast, as they hadn’t been cultivated yet.  Pumpkin was on the menu, but pumpkin pie was not as there were no ovens and the sugar supply had dwindled.  There certainly was no sweet potato-marshmallow dish, as the marshmallow wasn’t invented till the late 19^th century.  And there definitely wasn’t a green bean casserole of any description.

So Thanksgiving, as we know it today, is a completely contrived holiday, based on half-truths.  The food we spend all day preparing only bears a passing resemblance to things the Pilgrims would have eaten, if they’d had the chance.  That’s all okay because the basic idea behind Thanksgiving is sound.  Celebrate family and abundance in a day of feasting that brings everyone together.  That’s not a bad sentiment, any time of the year.

Much as the image of Santa Claus, as we know him today, was forever cemented in our minds by the Coca-Cola company’s illustrations, Campbell’s Soup has seized upon the opportunity of Thanksgiving to forge a new tradition.  Isn’t that, after all, the American way? Campbell’s has taken advantage of the Capitalistic society that allowed all of us to survive and prosper in this great land, and in one lowly dish, reminds us each Thanksgiving of what we have to be grateful for.  I think that’s genius.

So tomorrow, when the creamy, mushroomy, green-beany mess, with its soggy oniony topping, is pushed my way, I might actually try it.  It could actually be good… otherwise why would people keep making it year after year?

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE!!

It’s not just black women who have problems with their hair, you know. I haven’t seen Chris Rock’s documentary “Good Hair” yet, but I sure hope he thought to include the Jewfro – a seldom-discussed scourge that has plagued those of Jewish descent for decades. All you Jew-girls in the house, you know what I’m talking about. Unless you’re one of the lucky few, you’ve been through the same hell as I have, trying every treatment on the market to achieve that smooth, straight, shiny, flyaway look. It’s completely and utterly impossible, you know…we will never achieve that fashion magazine ideal.

Large, kinky and indefatigable, the Jewfro is all-powerful, beating even the most robust relaxers.  You can always tell the presence of a Jewfro, even if there’s been an attempt to straighten it, because there’s a small, tell-tale crimp at the hairline that just cannot be vanquished.  My sister and I, who have differing amounts of curl (her wavy, me frizzy-kinky-horrible) both have the “Jew-wave” and no flat iron, curling iron, Japanese straightener or Brazilian keratin hair treatment can make it go away. Trust me when I tell you, we’ve both tried.

I actually have to plan my day around my hair.  I can only wash it every other day or two or it dries out and won’t behave.  It takes 45 minutes to an hour to blowdry, flat iron and generally coerce into shape. One hint of sweat and it frizzes back up, so I do everything I can not to raise my body temperature. I don’t wear sweaters, jackets or long sleeves unless absolutely necessary. I don’t work out unless I’m on second day hair.  I don’t mess around unless I’m on second day hair.  This filamentous outgrowth of dead cells sprouting from my head actually controls my every waking moment, every day.

How much do I wish that enormous, crazy-looking hair was in fashion?  Sure, we Jews have had our shining moments in history when the Jewfro actually entered into the mainstream.  Take for example, that period of time when Jesus was wandering around, wearing a long white schmata and sandals.  Big curly hair was all the rage and his acolytes had it in spades.  I would have fit right in.

Then there was the 70s when flowing, “Free to Be You and Me” hair was in vogue.  From ages 6-16, I could actually wash and go feeling confidant that my hair was au courant and looked no nuttier than anyone else’s.  Men had it, women had it, even Asians got perms so they could have it – Mike Brady hair.

Then the 80s rolled around…my favorite decade of all. Hair reached new heights, mostly thanks to Tina Turner and her strategically-placed combs.  I reveled in my natural assets, teasing my hair as large as human hair could possibly go.  While I still needed product to control it, I was the envy of all my straight-haired friends who tried in vain to Aquanet their way to big hair greatness.

My happy days ended in the early 90s when the fascination with stick-straight hair began.  I burned my scalp with lye-based relaxers, purchased in the ethnic section of the drug store and applied alone at home.  It probably would have helped if I’d read the directions first…“apply an inch from the scalp so as to avoid third-degree burns.” I can still remember the scabs.

I soon turned to the new Japanese straightener, applied for $400 at the hair salon over a period of about five hours. Stinky as ammonia and bleach rolled together, the stuff was applied and then combed through continuously.  The result; flat, completely unshiny, Fuller Brush-like hair.  Years passed as I waited for this disaster to grow out, leaving me with inches of healthy curly hair, topped by inches of dry straw.  Lovely.

I tried to go natural for a while, battling with the never-ending blow-outs until I heard about the Keratin treatment. Even more expensive, it promised to leave a little natural wave and most importantly, an attractive, noticeable sheen.  Sign me up, I said. About six hours later, I had what looked to be manageable, good-looking hair. As I was preparing to leave the salon, my stylist warned, “make sure you only use XX brand of shampoo or the entire process will be reversed.” Well, of course she didn’t carry that brand and it was available nowhere.  It had to be purchased on the internet.  By the time it arrived, I’d been forced to use something else and the destruction had begun.  The internet shampoo smelled like crap and left my hair feeling greasy, so it was completely unusable.  Before long, the mop was back to its old self and $500 had been washed down the drain.

Fast forward to today, I have just about given up.  I’ve accepted the fact that my hair seceded from the union long ago and all I can do is appease it.  I’ve found ways to manage it just enough to get by…most of the time.  But it is omni-present still, and controlling as always.  Not to mention that a new wrinkle has been factored into the equation – grays. While my parents didn’t turn gray till they were well into their fifties, I now see hundreds of the crinkly, nasty little bastards sneaking their way onto my scalp.  Not content to torture me in familiar ways, my hair has thought up a new scheme, guaranteed to make me even crazier.

One of these days you and I will make a truce, hair.  Or maybe I’ll shave you off…what do you think about that? Then who’ll have the upper hand?  Or I’ll just start wearing you in a bun and stop paying attention to you.  No, you’re right, that’ll never happen.  You’re still the boss and always will be.  I hate you, Jewfro. Unless big hair comes back in, like shoulder pads.  Then we can be friends again.