Campbell's Soup Test Kitchen Employee

Once I grow up, I’m going to be a Campbell’s Soup test kitchen employee. I will spend year after year toiling over a hot oven, thinking of new and exciting ways to incorporate Cream of Mushroom Soup into everyday meals. I will delight in the fact that every night American families sit down to a dish of my creation after a long day of work, school, and housekeeping.

Each morning, my alarm will go off at exactly 6:30am. I will eat my daily bowl of Raisin Bran in silence, and then put on one of my many collared shirts and pairs of pressed khakis pants. My comfortable and sensible high-top sneakers will be non-slip--approved for maximum safety in kitchens. They will carry me outside of my one-story home to my beige Dodge Stratus (bought used, but reliable and made in America). At exactly 7:25 (five minutes early--as usual) I will arrive outside of Campbell’s headquarters in Camden, New Jersey.

My kitchen will be located on the fifth floor. After twenty years of faithful servitude, Campbell’s will have provided me with my own corner kitchen. No more sharing with Johnson, the tomato soup tester, who spoke constantly of his terrible tomato soup creations and even more terrible bowel movements. His recipes will hardly ever make the Campbell’s official recipe book. Mine, on the other hand, will be the shining stars.

Perhaps you will hear of a little recipe called the “green bean casserole.” Vibrant green beans will swim in a sea of Campbell’s creamy mushroom soup, topped with a regal crown of crispy fried onions. On holidays, slivered almonds or bacon bits can be added, creating an exceptional flavor combination perfect for special occasions.

After experimenting for nine years, I will reach the conclusion that Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup makes an excellent sauce. This is when my career will really take flight. Mixed with meat and some sort of starch, there are numerous possibilities. Among my creations: chicken and rice bake, chicken and rice casserole, chicken and noodle casserole, chicken and noodle bake, creamy chicken and mushroom stroganoff, creamy beef and mushroom stroganoff, creamy tuna stroganoff and pork chops.

Over the same six-burner stove I will toil daily, stirring Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup with the enthusiasm of a seven-year old who has just been given a puppy. Bags of cheddar cheese and broccoli will sit before me, eager to play their equal parts in some innovative and exciting new dish. I will not listen to any sort of music or radio shows as I work (like Johnson does), believing instead that the food before me creates its own symphony. When an idea works out well, I will experience a harmonious fusion of flavors, all gently waltzing over my taste buds. On these days, I will take the elevator up to the ninth floor, holding my creation with the delicacy of a newborn. My superiors at Campbell’s will rejoice at the sight of my face and foil-covered casserole dish. They will know about the hard work that I put into each and every creation, as they will have numerous security cameras set up on each floor. I will set the dish onto their long board meeting table, and divvy up portions onto plastic plates. Then, I will wait for each of them to chew and swallow that first bite. It will feel like hours. Almost every time, they will ooo and ahh, reaching for a second helping and yelling to the secretaries to “write this recipe up for the books.” These will be my moments of glory.

Of course, once every few years, one of my creations will be rejected. Instead of oohhing and ahhing, my superiors’ faces will--for a brief second--twist in disgust as they chew that first bite. Trying to be polite, they will suggest ways to rework my dying creation. “Maybe if you….,” or “Perhaps you should…” I will understand what they are really trying to say.

While living the life of a star employee at a widely loved soup company may seem glamorous, I might get lonely once and awhile. I will try to smother these feelings with daydreams of happy families enjoying my creations. Mom will place the glass casserole dish in the middle of the table, while Dad and their two young children look on in excitement. “OOOHHH, cheesy chicken and noodle casserole is my favorite Mom!” Billy, aged five will say. “I know, can we have this every night?” Suzie, aged seven will say. The mother will look at her husband with a look that says, “Our crazy kids.” They’ll both shake their heads and laugh.

Over the years, Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup will grow to be my best friend; my confidant. From its mushrooms and cream to its dehydrated garlic and monosodium glutamate, I will know its every in and out. And it will know mine. In the throes of sleep, visions of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup will dance in my head, peppered with ingredients I could never include in creations meant for the average middle-class, mid-western family. I will go to Monaco, Chile, and Egypt--all within the confines of my four poster bed. Visions of saffron and St. Andre cheese will tease me at work as I reach for the same mild cheddar cheese and egg noodles. Still, like any old friend, I will always be happy to see it just as it is. On cold winter days, I will forgo my usual lunch of tuna on wheat, and warm up a bowl of cream of mushroom instead. I will set the hot bowl in front of me, sit down and look. Creamy and earthy, rich and satisfying, this is the perfect food. I will savor each spoonful, and ignore the recipe suggestions listed on the back of the can.

Restaurant Hostess

Once I grow up, I’m going to be a restaurant hostess. My closet will be full of slinky black dresses and pants nice enough to be business appropriate but tight enough to be sexy. I will scoff at the idea that all hosts are snobby and stupid, but secretly take pride in the fact that they are usually thin and attractive.

My phone voice will be absolute perfection. Soft yet commanding, I will make reservations in a caring and efficient manner.

“Thank you for calling SPICE this is Jackie how may I help you,” I will say.

My head will turn ever so delicately as I answer the phone, and my face will take on an understanding expression as I listen along and nod. These people will go on and on about how delicious the food is, and can they please have that one famous table overlooking the city? I will grow bored by this question, as every guest asks for that table. It will be featured in dining magazines and websites, where it is deemed the epitome of a flawless dining experience. My free hand will tap the polished mahogany host stand as I listen to these guests plead for it. I will become an expert at kindly refusing their requests.

“I apologize Mr. Smith,” I will smile, “but that table has already been requested NUMEROUS times tonight.”

By emphasizing the word numerous to Mr. Smith, I will be letting him know he is ridiculous to call a few hours ahead and expect to procure that table. But, the gentle tone in which I relay this information will make him think I genuinely feel bad.

When making reservations, I will type information without looking at the keypad. Not only will I have memorized every letter, but I will type numbers without looking, just like a bank teller! This skill will make me an excellent multi-tasker. When a customer walks in while I am typing out a caller’s reservation, I will still be able to acknowledge them. I will look up from my computer to smile and give a slight wave. “So sorry,” I will mouth.

As a restaurant hostess, I will understand that my number Uno duty is to make people feel welcome. When customers walk into the restaurant, I will always greet them first, and only then ask them if they have a table reserved. I will find it tacky when other employees blurt out, “Do you have a reservation,” even before they get through the door! MY sentence order will make people feel like they are wanted and accepted at SPICE, even if they do not have a reservation. If these guests (and I will consider them all guests, even those silly enough to just walk in) do not have a table reserved, I will twist my face in a sympathetic manner.

“I’m so VERY sorry,” I will say, “but we don’t have any tables available for AT LEAST two hours.” Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting at our bar?”

If customers must wait for their tables in the lobby, I will make them feel as comfortable as possible. I will make idle chat with them, saying things like, “How about that weather we’re having?” or “What did you do today?” As if I really cared. If they are only men, I will lean over my host stand slightly but suggestively, and make sure to chuckle at all of their jokes. When women have to wait, I will compliment them on their jewelry, or the pretty ruffles lining the collars of their cardigans. I will even compliment their black leather boots, even though it seems every other woman that night will be wearing them.

These people waiting for the tables will appreciate the effort I put into talking to them, and find me to be very professional. “Boy, I never realized how hard that job could be,” Someone will say, watching me greeting guests AND answering phones. “Too clever for a host,” another person will add. The others in their party will agree. “Quite beautiful as well,” someone else will say.

Of course, I will not always be a model employee. As a restaurant hostess, I will be extremely passive aggressive. When I find a customer to be especially annoying, I will cheerfully show them to the table looking right into the bright but messy kitchen. When a server complains to me that they have too little tables, or too many, I will make sure they get the next party of foreigners.

“They don’t speak a lick of English, but I’m pretty sure they said something about ordering a bottle of Dom in German,” I’ll whisper. ”I bet they’re great tippers.”

Many things will fuel this bitterness. I will hate the way that Mr. Smith feels the need to spell his last name for me as he checks in. I will hate the way that some women look me up and down when they walk in, considering my outfit and stance. I will hate that when I say “Hello” to some people, they will not have the courtesy to say it back. I will hate the way that people talk to me like a ten-year old child, all the while throwing fits about their inability to attain that one coveted table. These things will piss me off. But, I will hold that in and smile. And I will continue to smile, because I will be a true professional.

Doctor's Wife

Once I grow up, I'm going to be a Doctor's wife. His name will be something like David Walker. It's a strong name, relatable name. His patients will know him as Dr. Walker. Of course, I will just call him David. My David will be stunningly handsome. He will have thick golden hair, which he will always be pushing off of his forehead with his masculine hands. His teeth will be stunningly white to match the brilliant area around his ocean blue irises. David will always wear khakis and polo shirts, neatly ironed. The sleeves will be short enough to display his tan, well-toned arms.

David and I will meet in college, where I will catch his eye from across the library. David will pretend that he needs help with his biology homework, and ask me if I could tutor him, even though it will be obvious that I am studying psychology. He will like the purple sweater I'm wearing, and the way my brunette curls fall along my petite shoulders. I will tell a joke about the stormy weather, saying that "when it rains, it pours," and he will fall in love with my tremendous wittiness. We will go on dates to the local pizza joint, where I will tell him about my communications class that day, and the paper I have to write on the newest popular movie picture. He will gripe about his biology professor and his Cornell medical school application.

Our wedding will be revered as the most magnificent reception the Northeast had ever seen. I will be stunning in an elegant Vera Wang dress paired with David’s Grandmother’s ivory pearls. David’s father will tell the crowd that I have made David not only a better man, but a better Doctor. I will blush and throw my wrist at the air as if I am denying the accuracy of his words.

Other women--especially the nurses at his hospital, who will make sure to wear their nicest perfumes to work, just for him--will be insanely jealous of me. They will look me up and down as I make my way to his office overlooking the city. Naturally, I will always be dressed to the nines. With David's six-figure salary, I will be able to afford any little luxuries I can imagine. I will prefer Diane Von Furstenberg's simple wrap dresses for errands around town, paired with Giuseppe Zanotti's python print boots. It will look great with my Mulburry "mitzy" tote and half-soy-half-skim-double-decaf-chai-latte.

All of my kitchen appliances will be stainless steel, and my counters will be granite. They will be littered with pharmaceutical pens and crumpled up to-do lists scribbled on prescription paper.

I will visit the hospital frequently, in-between visits to the spa and the gym. I’ll wait in my doctor’s office (at his strong mahogany desk) for him as he is finishing his second heart surgery of the day, and hear his name being called over the loudspeaker. "Paging Dr. Walker, paging Dr. Walker. Please call down to radiology." My heart will swell with pride when I hear this. That is MY Doctor. My honey caramel highlights glistening in the sunlight, I will sit at David's desk, thinking about where we should have dinner that evening. Of course, I’ll be in the mood for sushi, and will promptly call our favorite sushi restaurant to reserve the finest table in the establishment. "What is the last name," the hostess will ask. "Walker," I will smugly beam. "And the first name," she will absently ask. "Just put it under Dr.," I will say.

Astronaut

Once I grow up, I’m going to be an Astronaut. My days will mostly be spent floating around my grand spaceship between various boards of shiny silver buttons, eating neapolitan-flavored freeze-dried ice cream sandwiches. I will be the expert on these buttons, working tirelessly day and night flipping switches and turning knobs. Of course, when I am not too busy with my switchboards, I will assist the others on the ship, who will hold such important positions as Doctor and Scientist. When they try to help me, I will yell things like, “Don’t touch that knob Johnson!! That’s only for confribulator emergencies!” After our mission is over, I will successfully navigate our spaceship back to earth through fiery walls of atmosphere. Upon landing, we will be greeted by crowds and crowds of adoring fans. They will all flock around us, begging us to tell them what it’s like to float in space. My colleagues will quiet the mass of excited citizens and inform them that without me, none of the mission’s success would have been possible. My knob turning and navigation abilities surpassed any of their efforts put forth for this operation. Naturally, I will blush and assure the crowd it was a team effort. But, when everyone insists that I take the most prominent spot of our float for our honorary parade, I will not decline.

Famous Writer

Once I grow up, I’m going to be a famous writer. Everything I write will be an instant hit, and people will wait in line for hours upon hours just to buy my new book. Every review written will be an outstanding appraisal of my engaging storylines, witty characters, and thought-provoking situations. People will read my books in a single night, and stand around the water cooler at work the next day sleepless but inspired by my exquisite writings. Their lives changed, they will all vow to quit their silly nine-to-five jobs and venture out into the “real world”--a world where all people co-exist peacefully and with purpose. They will all move to Tuscany or the Midwest, somewhere where they can really get back to their roots, just like my books moved them to do! They will farm corn or coffee or buckwheat, all the while repeating back humorous but clever jokes to each other they first read in my books. As a famous writer, I will only give interviews to the most prestigious magazines, where they will ask me about what my writing schedule is like, and how do I stay in such good shape? After the interview is over, the interviewer will lean in and beg me to write just a few articles for them. “It would be a huge honor,” he or she would whisper, “and we will pay you $100 per word.” Naturally, I would turn the money down, but the issues that I wrote for would be the best sellers of any magazines of all time.