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After college I rented an apartment in Boston from a middle-aged woman and her son. They lived downstairs, and I occupied the top floor of the duplex. The mother didn't speak much English, but I used to smile at her on my way to work. She would be in the front garden by 8:00 in the morning, and she would often be there on my way home in the evening.
I think she found my smiles friendly, because one winter evening she came up the back stairs to my kitchen door. She looked very pleased as she handed me a small package wrapped in Christmas paper. "Open, open," she said. I set the package on the counter and ripped off the paper. It was a yellow Velveeta cheese box. I figured she had used it to hold the real present. I lifted the lid and inside was a moldy bar of Velveeta cheese, hermetically sealed in plastic.
I thanked her. We've all learned it's the thought that counts. But I still have no idea what possessed her to give me that hunk of green cheese. Maybe she didn't eat cheese and didn't know her gift was past its prime. She might have thought that all Americans love Velveeta.
Perhaps an American gave her the Velveeta, thinking it was a great emblem of American food processing. She was just passing along the goodness.
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