Just before dark, I finally got around to fixin' beans.
Daughter was at work, and, because it was such a small mess, I didn't ask Husband to help.
Alone on the back porch, stringin' and snappin', I felt kinda lonely.
Lonely isn't something I feel much. Raised for almost eleven years as an only child, I learned to be alone, keeping myself entertained. (Which is one reason, I suspect, I am a writer.)
But somehow my mind went back to one summer afternoon, when I lived away in the big city, that I reluctantly and temporarily called home. My granny answered the phone, sounding a little irritated as well as a little out of breath.
"What ya'll doin'?" I asked her, after the usual, "Hey, it's me."
"We's out on the porch a'fixin' beans. You shore do need to be here."
I felt a pang of homesick stab me in the heart so sharp I didn't think I could breathe.
I wasn't made to work much as a child, but when it came to beans, we all worked. Everybody sat on the front porch, aproned lap full of beans ready to be fixed. On one side was a large pan for throwing the strung and broke beans into; on the other side was a waste basket of some sort to dump your strings and bug bit pieces in when your lap got full.
I usually had a grandmother, Mother, if she wasn't at work, and a granddaddy there. Most times my aunt and Yankee Cousin were there, too. I also helped out on the other side, grandmother, granddaddy, Mother and myself.
Since talk was cheap, there was plenty of it to go around. Me and Yankee cousin didn't say much because if we were quiet, we could get quite the education from hearing all the adults chatter.
But last night, I was alone - missing them all. Grandparents have gone on, as has the aunt. Mother was at her own house, oblivious I even had a mess of beans.
And Yankee Cousin - well, I kept expectin' her to walk through the door and get busy helpin'.
But she never did.
Showing posts with label beans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beans. Show all posts
Friday, July 31, 2015
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Exasperating Expiration Dates
Expiration dates are a big deal around this house.
Daughter is nearly a freak about the whole thing, taking the dates as the absolute gospel. I tell her when she wants to start buying all that food she thinks should be thrown out, she can throw it out. I remind her I ain't poisoned her yet, and don't intend to, unless she keeps up the blather about the expiration dates.
Husband, who eats like a pig at slop, is finicky about some stuff. I just ignore him. If he doesn't want to eat it, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, he won't starve.
I am extremely careful about certain foods, like meat. I make sure it looks good, smells good, etc. before I cook it. I make sure it is stored well, and if it gets lost in the freezer for too long, out it goes.
When milk reaches its 'best buy by' date, I start the old sniff and sip before gulping. Let me point out that except for Dog Days, milk is usually good several days after that date. After all, as I have pointed out to Daughter ad nauseam, it says best sell by, not best drink by.
I've tried to explain that some things may lose their fizz or their punch. They aren't poison, just flat. And if you must drink it, it's okay, but if you have something else, pour that flat drink down the drain.
Same goes for stale cookies and crackers. They ain't gonna kill you, but they taste blah.
So, I was reading an article about how to keep food for as long as possible. What not to freeze or refrigerate, what to store in plastic, what not to, etc.
And they agreed that the expiration dates for many things aren't when it goes bad.
Some things last months after the date, some years.
Apparently canned and dried beans are with us, lo, even until the end of the earth.
It warns about discoloration in certain oils may mean it's rancid, and who needs that when frying chicken?
But the most interesting thing is honey. Now, I already knew that honey is the 'perfect food' and that it never ruins.
I did not know that they had found pots of honey when they excavated some Egyptian tombs, and it was well preserved and ready to put on a good old Egyptian biscuit.
It seems it never goes bad because of an enzyme in the honey bee's tummy that kills bacteria, apparently forever.
Can you imagine having a party and putting that Egyptian pot of honey on the table and encouraging your guests to eat it?
I'm with Daughter on this one.
Daughter is nearly a freak about the whole thing, taking the dates as the absolute gospel. I tell her when she wants to start buying all that food she thinks should be thrown out, she can throw it out. I remind her I ain't poisoned her yet, and don't intend to, unless she keeps up the blather about the expiration dates.
Husband, who eats like a pig at slop, is finicky about some stuff. I just ignore him. If he doesn't want to eat it, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, he won't starve.
I am extremely careful about certain foods, like meat. I make sure it looks good, smells good, etc. before I cook it. I make sure it is stored well, and if it gets lost in the freezer for too long, out it goes.
When milk reaches its 'best buy by' date, I start the old sniff and sip before gulping. Let me point out that except for Dog Days, milk is usually good several days after that date. After all, as I have pointed out to Daughter ad nauseam, it says best sell by, not best drink by.
I've tried to explain that some things may lose their fizz or their punch. They aren't poison, just flat. And if you must drink it, it's okay, but if you have something else, pour that flat drink down the drain.
Same goes for stale cookies and crackers. They ain't gonna kill you, but they taste blah.
So, I was reading an article about how to keep food for as long as possible. What not to freeze or refrigerate, what to store in plastic, what not to, etc.
And they agreed that the expiration dates for many things aren't when it goes bad.
Some things last months after the date, some years.
Apparently canned and dried beans are with us, lo, even until the end of the earth.
It warns about discoloration in certain oils may mean it's rancid, and who needs that when frying chicken?
But the most interesting thing is honey. Now, I already knew that honey is the 'perfect food' and that it never ruins.
I did not know that they had found pots of honey when they excavated some Egyptian tombs, and it was well preserved and ready to put on a good old Egyptian biscuit.
It seems it never goes bad because of an enzyme in the honey bee's tummy that kills bacteria, apparently forever.
Can you imagine having a party and putting that Egyptian pot of honey on the table and encouraging your guests to eat it?
I'm with Daughter on this one.
Friday, August 29, 2014
Bean Mania - Save Me!
If you read my blogs you know I call my Mother, Mother. But for the sake of this blog, she'll be Mama.
Mama is manic. This was caused not by a mental illness, but by a bushel of white half runners.
Lord!
As you know, when a bean is born, it is born. We can't change the date or put it off. It just is.
So my bushel came up, Husband went and got, and then we were in a dilemma.
In the midst, when we should have been fixin, we had to go to Dalton to the ENT because both Mama and me was gettin deafer by the minute.
Husband is yelling at me this morning, by the way. He swears his volume has not changed a bit. So I told him to change it.
We brought the beans home and spread them out on the cold tile in the sun room and turned the fan on them.
Still, Mama fretted all day. It wasn't so bad on the way to Dalton, but on the way back I could actually hear her, and it got bad.
We set to the minute we walked in the door, grabbin pans and knives and such and started stringin and breakin beans.
With the four of us workin our fingers to the bone (Mama, me, Husband and Daughter), we got about two thirds of them done.
Mama called this mornin and said she'd been up since 4:30 a.m. breakin' beans. (She made Husband put the remainder of what was unstrung last night in a sack and she took them with her, as I have an appointment at noon and couldn't get started early.)
I didn't even know they still have a 4:30 a.m.
She was talkin fast and loud on the phone about what all we can have for lunch, and how we needed to know how many rings and lids we needed from the Pig. Run all that together as one word, and say it LOUD and you'll see what I was hearin before coffee.
Mama is also thrilled because they turned up her hearing aids and she can actually hear better.
They turned mine up, too.
Anyway, this afternoon and tomorrow we'll be fixin and cannin beans.
He'll have more beans in Monday and Mama says she might just want some more.
All I ask is everyone just speak a little softer, okay?
You're givin me a headache.
Mama is manic. This was caused not by a mental illness, but by a bushel of white half runners.
Lord!
As you know, when a bean is born, it is born. We can't change the date or put it off. It just is.
So my bushel came up, Husband went and got, and then we were in a dilemma.
In the midst, when we should have been fixin, we had to go to Dalton to the ENT because both Mama and me was gettin deafer by the minute.
Husband is yelling at me this morning, by the way. He swears his volume has not changed a bit. So I told him to change it.
We brought the beans home and spread them out on the cold tile in the sun room and turned the fan on them.
Still, Mama fretted all day. It wasn't so bad on the way to Dalton, but on the way back I could actually hear her, and it got bad.
We set to the minute we walked in the door, grabbin pans and knives and such and started stringin and breakin beans.
With the four of us workin our fingers to the bone (Mama, me, Husband and Daughter), we got about two thirds of them done.
Mama called this mornin and said she'd been up since 4:30 a.m. breakin' beans. (She made Husband put the remainder of what was unstrung last night in a sack and she took them with her, as I have an appointment at noon and couldn't get started early.)
I didn't even know they still have a 4:30 a.m.
She was talkin fast and loud on the phone about what all we can have for lunch, and how we needed to know how many rings and lids we needed from the Pig. Run all that together as one word, and say it LOUD and you'll see what I was hearin before coffee.
Mama is also thrilled because they turned up her hearing aids and she can actually hear better.
They turned mine up, too.
Anyway, this afternoon and tomorrow we'll be fixin and cannin beans.
He'll have more beans in Monday and Mama says she might just want some more.
All I ask is everyone just speak a little softer, okay?
You're givin me a headache.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
And Life Goes On
Today is my mother's 85th birthday.
Which means I'm old.
Not to focus on me, of course, that was just a passing thought.
She and I have been through an awful lot these past sixty years, seven months and three weeks, and that's not even counting her throwing up constantly and being hospitalized off and on during her pregnancy with me. She said when I left her body the sickness left her, too.
The doctors said there was something in my system she was allergic to.
She's probably felt allergic to me a lot since then, too.
Anyway, we have had plans in the past. Some of them came to fruition, some did not.
We even have big plans right now.
Beans. Lots of beans.
Nothing like a three generational bean fixin to bring a family close together.
Even Husband is in on the thing, having to go get the beans, bring up all the canning jars from the storage room, and maybe being talked into stringin' one or two.
Maybe not.
Tomorrow we have a big trip planned to Dalton to the ENT to hopefully get all four of our ears working better.
And so it goes.
There's lots to be said for day to day living with family.
Happy Birthday, Mother.
May it be a year of plans and family.
Which means I'm old.
Not to focus on me, of course, that was just a passing thought.
She and I have been through an awful lot these past sixty years, seven months and three weeks, and that's not even counting her throwing up constantly and being hospitalized off and on during her pregnancy with me. She said when I left her body the sickness left her, too.
The doctors said there was something in my system she was allergic to.
She's probably felt allergic to me a lot since then, too.
Anyway, we have had plans in the past. Some of them came to fruition, some did not.
We even have big plans right now.
Beans. Lots of beans.
Nothing like a three generational bean fixin to bring a family close together.
Even Husband is in on the thing, having to go get the beans, bring up all the canning jars from the storage room, and maybe being talked into stringin' one or two.
Maybe not.
Tomorrow we have a big trip planned to Dalton to the ENT to hopefully get all four of our ears working better.
And so it goes.
There's lots to be said for day to day living with family.
Happy Birthday, Mother.
May it be a year of plans and family.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Bean Fixin
Fixin beans with a man ain't as satisfyin as when you are fixin with a woman. I can't rightly say why, but that's just the way of it.
For one thing, men don't do as gooder a job as a woman, but I reckon that's a different subject.
Today I trussed myself up in a straight chair to help, not wantin to undo the chiropractor's delicate and possible temporary job on my back.
But Husband had picked the beans yesterday, and they had to be fixed.
Daughter was doin housework while Husband and I commenced stringin beans. But the lure of the chore: the smell, the sound, the generational pull of fixin beans drew her nigh. She came with her pan and knife and set in.
Conversation began.
Beans got fixed.
Women talked and were satisfied, somehow.
You know, that deep contented satisfaction you get with beans in your lap, the fan blowin on you, a cat in the floor watchin with keen eye, thinkin on how to nab just one bean...
Yes sir, that kind.
May of made my back hurt a little worse, but my heart sure did feel better.
For one thing, men don't do as gooder a job as a woman, but I reckon that's a different subject.
Today I trussed myself up in a straight chair to help, not wantin to undo the chiropractor's delicate and possible temporary job on my back.
But Husband had picked the beans yesterday, and they had to be fixed.
Daughter was doin housework while Husband and I commenced stringin beans. But the lure of the chore: the smell, the sound, the generational pull of fixin beans drew her nigh. She came with her pan and knife and set in.
Conversation began.
Beans got fixed.
Women talked and were satisfied, somehow.
You know, that deep contented satisfaction you get with beans in your lap, the fan blowin on you, a cat in the floor watchin with keen eye, thinkin on how to nab just one bean...
Yes sir, that kind.
May of made my back hurt a little worse, but my heart sure did feel better.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Farmer Hill
Ah, the garden spot.
An even dozen tomatoes on the vine. More, please.
The beans are growing up the poles that Husband stuck last week. The vines curl like a skinny green snake, eager to reach the sky.
Onions are almost ready for the pickin'. I love me some onions.
Butter beans ain't doin' so bad, either.
Squash! Yay!
Red lettuce is showing up nicely, too.
My favorite, potatoes, are peeking out.
We've spent enough money on this garden to keep us in groceries via the Piggly Wiggly for six months.
But I ask you: would it taste as good?
Nope. Not by a long shot.
Now, if I can just convince Husband to get out there and weed.
He will, he says.
Tomorrow.
An even dozen tomatoes on the vine. More, please.
The beans are growing up the poles that Husband stuck last week. The vines curl like a skinny green snake, eager to reach the sky.
Onions are almost ready for the pickin'. I love me some onions.
Butter beans ain't doin' so bad, either.
Squash! Yay!
Red lettuce is showing up nicely, too.
My favorite, potatoes, are peeking out.
We've spent enough money on this garden to keep us in groceries via the Piggly Wiggly for six months.
But I ask you: would it taste as good?
Nope. Not by a long shot.
Now, if I can just convince Husband to get out there and weed.
He will, he says.
Tomorrow.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Preparing for Disaster
You know the gloom and doom talk nowadays. That our economy is on the verge of collapse, and we will have to survive like they did way back when.
Now, no one says when was, but I figure they are talking about eatin' squirrels, possums, rabbits and (sob) Bambi.
I don't want to eat any of the above. Squirrels are rats with tails, possums are UG-LY, rabbits and deer, are well, precious. Stop making fun of me, I can't help it.
Don't get me wrong, I'll eat them every one, though, if I am hungry. We have a small garden, but nothing that would get us through a winter. Maybe through November. Without Thanksgiving. Hey! We have wild turkeys too....
Anyhow, I've been thinking on one thing that is surely easy to do, and that's make soap.
See, I'm saving all the slivers and chunks and puttin' 'em in a jar. I figure when I get enough, I'll, uh, do something and make a bar of new soap!
Brilliant, huh?
I just gotta figure out how to make the bar...
Also, I'm really thrifty with my clothes. Daughter was looking at a picture of us when she was a newborn, asleep on my chest. She said, "Hey, isn't that the shirt you have on right now?" Sure enough, it was. Daughter is twenty-two years old.
We are in great shape at our house as long as the propane gas and the gasoline last. We have a gas hot water heater, a gas log fireplace in the sun room (which is really just a big old heater) and my cook stove is gas. The gasoline run generator can operate our water pump, refrigerator, two plug-ins, and the overhead lights in the kitchen.
We have a wood burning "real" fireplace in the living room.
And we have some beans in the pantry.
Okay, I admit it: we are unprepared for the collapse of the world as we know it. A few months, no problem. After that, well, folks, bring on the squirrel gravy, dandelion salad and turkey, deer and bunny.
I'll be dressed for the event, and washed up.
As soon as I figure out how to make the soap into an actual bar.
And I bet google can tell me!
Oh, no.
We won't have google anymore. Or facebook. Or blogs.
How will I ever be able to tell you about my life as a pioneer?
I have a feeling you won't have time to ask.
Now, no one says when was, but I figure they are talking about eatin' squirrels, possums, rabbits and (sob) Bambi.
I don't want to eat any of the above. Squirrels are rats with tails, possums are UG-LY, rabbits and deer, are well, precious. Stop making fun of me, I can't help it.
Don't get me wrong, I'll eat them every one, though, if I am hungry. We have a small garden, but nothing that would get us through a winter. Maybe through November. Without Thanksgiving. Hey! We have wild turkeys too....
Anyhow, I've been thinking on one thing that is surely easy to do, and that's make soap.
See, I'm saving all the slivers and chunks and puttin' 'em in a jar. I figure when I get enough, I'll, uh, do something and make a bar of new soap!
Brilliant, huh?
I just gotta figure out how to make the bar...
Also, I'm really thrifty with my clothes. Daughter was looking at a picture of us when she was a newborn, asleep on my chest. She said, "Hey, isn't that the shirt you have on right now?" Sure enough, it was. Daughter is twenty-two years old.
We are in great shape at our house as long as the propane gas and the gasoline last. We have a gas hot water heater, a gas log fireplace in the sun room (which is really just a big old heater) and my cook stove is gas. The gasoline run generator can operate our water pump, refrigerator, two plug-ins, and the overhead lights in the kitchen.
We have a wood burning "real" fireplace in the living room.
And we have some beans in the pantry.
Okay, I admit it: we are unprepared for the collapse of the world as we know it. A few months, no problem. After that, well, folks, bring on the squirrel gravy, dandelion salad and turkey, deer and bunny.
I'll be dressed for the event, and washed up.
As soon as I figure out how to make the soap into an actual bar.
And I bet google can tell me!
Oh, no.
We won't have google anymore. Or facebook. Or blogs.
How will I ever be able to tell you about my life as a pioneer?
I have a feeling you won't have time to ask.
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