Since our trip to LA to see Mahagonny will be spendy, I consider it my birthday and Xmas gifts for the next several years. This didn't stop Harriet from giving me a lot of little presents last week: a can of corned beef hash, a jar of pickled herring ... and a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. She doesn't appreciate the latter, preferring other brands, but she knows this is my favorite. It's probably my favorite because I grew up on it.
Our family started camping right after WWII, long before sleeping outdoors became fashionable. We didn't go to campgrounds or parks. We pulled off the side of the road, spread out the tarp, unrolled the sleeping bags and slept under the stars. We never had trouble. On the contrary, once or twice a week on our long cross-country drives (California to New Jersey and back again), a farmer's wife would come out to welcome us with a pie or freshly baked bread. We never felt in danger. It was a nicer country then, a nicer world.
We ate Dinty Moore Beef Stew for dinner practically every night. We loved it! We looked forward to it. It was a dinnertime ritual on the road.
A rush of these memories came when I opened my birthday can for lunch a moment ago. I can't think of camping without thinking of Dinty Moore.
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