WHICH way to Manwich?

No Manwich sauce is the Major Irritant of the Week.

I really haven't felt homesick since we moved to Boston. My first wave of homesickness came on Sunday night when my sister decided to make me taco salad. This recipe comes from a cookbook/survival manual called: . It is written by Betty Rae Frandsen and there are at least 47 editions in circulation.

The recipe consists of taco chips, Manwich sauce (or sloppy Joe sauce), kidney beans, ground beef, tomatoes, lettuce, grated cheese and lots of sour cream.

My sister and I scoured at least three large grocery stores for Manwich sauce but with no luck. We had the same experience a few weeks ago when I stayed with an aunt in southern Massachusetts. I find this bizarre. It's like a store not carrying Kraft macaroni & cheese or not having a tin of chicken & noodle soup. I grew up on Manwich sauce. It's a staple. What kind of place is too snooty for Manwich? I want to go home.

My sister decided to use a combination of chili sauce and taco sauce. This does not work for me. If you want taco salad you have to make it the way it says in the book. My husband has already tortured me by changing the Manwich sauce to taco sauce, taking out the beans, then replacing the hand-grated cheddar with dry powdery cheese from a bag. Ugh. Then he took away the taco chips and replaced them with actual taco shells.

I am going to declare this recipe mine. No one else is allowed to touch it. Now I understand why old people refuse to share their recipes. It's too painful to watch other people ruin a good thing.

But, as big as my Manwich problems are, other people have it worse. The other day I met another graduate student who was ready to quit and go home.

I met Mary during graduate international student orientation. She sat next to me and I might never have talked to her if I hadn't taken a peek at her name.

Her name was Mary Wangui Something and she was from Kenya. On my first day of orientation as an undergraduate transfer student at Emerson, I sat next to a girl from Kenya. Her name was also Wangui.

"I'm so overwhelmed," said this Mary Wangui. "I've been crying since I got here three days ago. I think I'm going to go back to Kenya.

"It's just too big here. People walk too fast. There are too many people."

MARY was 22, had never been out of Kenya and had always lived in her parents' house. She said: "I don't know where to get a subway pass. I've been eating junk because I don't know what else to eat."

"Look," I said. "Why don't I take you to get your subway pass and we'll go and get a bagel."

"What's a bagel?" she asked.

So in the end, I led her all over Boston introducing her to the delights of bagels and the horrors of the Department of Motor Vehicles (Boston's TCD). I was puzzled by her complete lack of suspicion. Eventually, I said to her: "You're a younger sister aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm the youngest of nine children."

That explained everything. Only a youngest would let a complete stranger take them all over Boston. And only an oldest would be that bossy.

"You're married? I'd really like to be married," she said wistfully.

"Do you have a fianc?e?"

"No, I'd just like to be married. I'm really passive."

"No kidding," I said, but she didn't get it.

In the end, my husband and I left Mary at the right subway stop so she could go to South Station to do her grocery shopping.

Mary lives a block from my apartment in Brookline. Brookline is a long way from South Station. I tried explaining to her where the numerous grocery stores were in Brookline.

There was one a block from where she lived. But it was all too much for her.

"I might get lost," she said. "At least I know where South Station is. And I don't plan on taking the subway at night. It's too scary."

All graduate classes happen between 4 p.m. and 9.45 p.m. I have no idea how she was going to avoid taking the subway at night.

"If it makes you feel any better the subway has the same brightness, day or night," I offered. "It's underground. You can't tell what time of day it is outside."

She wasn't impressed.

I haven't seen Mary since that day. I've forgotten her last name; never got her e-mail address and she didn't have a telephone at the time. I haven't seen her face on a milk carton, so I assume she made it back to her apartment all right.

After meeting Mary I realised I'm really doing all right here. It is a tremendous advantage to have lived here before. I already know my way around the city. I know what a bagel is (thank goodness).