Some columns have the ability to write themselves. I have recently found myself in several situations where the people speaking to me start with “please don’t write about this.” I never know if I should be flattered or insulted. Sometimes things happen that go into the memory banks and one day, if I can still remember them, I will write about them. Other times, and this has been happening more frequently, I usually forget the conversation altogether and nothing will come of it ever. But, the conversation that took place last week was just too good to pass up on and it took place with a woman who will never ever read this column. Trust me when I say this with absolute certainty.

I was making my daily rounds to ShopRite. When cans of Fanta are on sale, husband #1 has me there every day of the week because the limit is five at a time. So, with the math, by Friday, we had amassed 25 12-packs of Fanta. That is 300 cans of soda, I think. Oh God, that is really, really bad. I hope there aren’t any dentists reading this because it actually just gave me a cavity writing that. As for the nutritionists that may or may not read this, I am assuming that you have given up on my family already and are not even surprised with that number.

So on this particular morning, I was also buying a whole bunch of sauces for the food I was cooking. Vodka cream sauce for pasta, marinara sauce for meatballs, cranberry glaze sauce for chicken…you get the point. My favorite checkout lady enjoys asking me what I use the sauces for. I was particularly chatty because I had taken an Excedrine migraine tablet that morning and the caffeine was making me shaky and nervous so I was just yapping away. I had a whole monologue about why would anyone make sauce or dressing from scratch when you can buy it in a neat bottle. No muss, no fuss. And then the interesting conversation began.

The blonde tank-top lady on line behind the lady on line behind me started. “I have four sons and they looove my homemade sauces. We are Italian and my husband would just die, I tell you he would just die, if I ever gave him sauce from a jar.” At first I thought, “wait a second, if I give husband #1 sauce from a jar he will die? That would be really sad!” But then I realized he only gets sauce from a jar so, thank God, we are safe with that one. As for my three boys, son #1 doesn’t eat anything with sauce unless I sneak some on his boiled flanken. Sons #2 and #3 have always been perfectly happy with whatever I give them; so blonde tank-top lady, we are good. Jarred sauce is just fine in my happy home. Then it got better.

“Not only do I have four sons, but I’m a grandma!” I told her how nice that was. “I have a 32-year-old, a 27-year-old, a 25-year-old and a 21-year-old!” Again, I expressed how happy I was for her and how young she looked. But wait, there is more…“My 27-year-old is a lawyer and my 25-year-old works in the city.” Again, told her how great that is. And then it hit the fan. “And my boys still all live with me and I cook for them every night.” Huh? What did you say? They still live with you? And your grandchildren live with you? And you can still pull off a tank top?

At this point, the checkout lady from my line and the line next to me, all of the people on line behind me and on the line next to me were a part of this eye-opening conversation. “Well, my son the lawyer has $200,000 in law school debts, but he is getting a job so he should be moving out in about six months. My other son has a great job in the city, but you know how high rent is! My other son is still in college and he likes living at home.” I was afraid to ask about the eldest son and her grandchildren, mainly because I thought she would tell me, and my perishables were starting to perish. So basically I left ShopRite thinking, “wow, I always joke about my boys living in the basement.” Maybe the joke will be on me!

Banji Ganchrow is a proud cook of many one-pan wonders. Any recipe that has more than four steps should be left to Susie Fishbein.

By Banji Latkin Ganchrow