Tomato Soup

Yesterday, at the grocery store, I bought a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. It’s a purchase I make regularly. And, to be clear, I cannot remember a time in my life when Campbell’s tomato soup was not on my menu.

When I was growing up, it was a staple—usually with a grilled-cheese (well, Velveeta) sandwich. At least once a week. (Mom made it with milk; I use water.)

Later, on my own, I bought it and ate it because I had very little money—first year’s teaching salary: $5100, which worked out to 24 semi-monthly payments of $168.42. That didn’t buy a lot, but it did buy many cans of Campbell’s tomato soup.

The funny thing is—I don’t like tomatoes. Not raw ones. Can’t eat them. Just can’t. A few years ago, nearing 70, I thought, Hey, you’re nearing 70. You can eat a damned tomato. I tried it. But ... I quickly realized I could not eat a damned tomato.

So why do I like tomato sauce on spaghetti? On pizza? Why do I love Campbell’s tomato soup?

Beats me.

In my boyhood home we had other varieties of Campbell’s. Chicken noodle was another favorite, and we often had it. Mom also kept cans of cream of mushroom, cream of celery, and some other inedible combinations that she used in her cooking. (Those meals were not among my favorites.)

These days, I still ingest lots of grilled cheese (often with sliced turkey) and sip it down with Campbell’s. In fact, I’m having that combo for supper tonight. I’ll probably have it a couple of other evenings this week, too. Oh, what an epicure I am!

I don’t remember how I felt in the early 1960s when I first saw Andy Warhol’s collection of Campbell soup-can paintings. Surprised? No ... no ... not surprised. Vindicated! I was consuming art!

(Link to the MoMA site where you can see Warhol’s work.)