The stew slides out of the can with a schlurrrrrrrrp. It retains a cylindrical shape until I smash it up with a wooden spoon. Beige, orange, and brown cubes with rounded corners swim in a brown puddle. That’s the potatoes, carrots, and meat. The beef is made of highly processed hamburger meat, ground up again and again before being pressed into a shape.

I know that it is ready when the stew sizzles and spits.

I take the French fries out of the oven. I scoop some onto a plate and I dump the stew on top of the French fries. I set the plate down in front of my surprised son.

“My dad used to make this for me when I was a kid,” I tell him.

“Oh.” He pauses to take a hesitant bite, and then he says, “Did you like this when you were a kid?”