WHEN SHE OBSERVED MY FACILITY WITH THE CAN OPENER--not the shiny expensive apparatus she kept sharp on the sunny yellow doorjamb to the pantry, but a little beetle of a tool I produced from one of the profligate pockets of that awful, dingy jacket--on a tin of devilled ham, my mother immediately jumped into action. She made a market run to stock the cabinets with all sorts of soups and meats, fruits in syrup, vegetables in broth.
The one thing her boy went for was a product the thought of which brought a tear to my mother's eye--something so fine, good, and American--when she considered the wholesome, understated way it kept her son alive. She went back and to the store and filled a case with dozens of varieties--astounded by the discovery it could cover all the food groups: Campbell's Soup.