Saturday Night Baked Beans

Growing up, we ate homemade baked beans every Saturday night--because my family was from New Brunswick, on the east coast of Canada. Lots of people in upstate New York, New England, the Maritime Provinces, and Quebec still have a bean pot tucked away in a kitchen cupboard. After moved to upstate New York, heard others' stories about baked beans. My husband tells my favorite. As a boy, he worked on a farm near Stamford, NY, for a program that brought city kids to work on farms during World War II; he mostly ate hot beans for supper, cold beans from the bean pot for breakfast the next morning. As a girl, decided beans were a boring excuse for a meal. Adding hot dogs and biscuits or homemade bread didn't particularly help. It didn't matter--if it was Saturday, beans were what we were going to eat. My mother insisted she made beans because it was convenient. She shopped on Saturday without worrying about cooking dinner. The beans were already in the oven. But knew the truth. It was tradition. My mother was proud of her beans. Other people liked them, too. Now living in Western Canada where the only beans people saw came out of a Heinz can, our friends stopped by on Saturday afternoons, hoping to be invited for supper. My mother always cooked enough to feed a crowd. silently wished they wouldn't encourage her. dreaded the years my birthday fell on a Saturday. Birthday cake--and beans! Washing the bean pot was one of my most dreaded chores. My sister and took turns washing the dishes, and each of us, day by day, decided the pot needed to soak a little longer. Saturday morning would come, and the bean pot would be full of smelly, funky water with a few of last week's beans still clinging to the sides. My mother was not happy. When grew up, stopped thinking about baked beans, unless was visiting my family and Saturday night rolled around. In my own home, didn't make or eat homemade beans. Ever. The first time my mother visited, she made herself at home in my kitchen. heard pots clanging. She came to me, puzzled. Margaret, she demanded, Where do you keep your bean pot? I don't have one, replied. My mother thought about that for several seconds. Well, then, she said, How do you make beans? My answer left her flabbergasted: I don't. Years passed. reached the age of nostalgia. began to long, just a little, for real homemade baked beans. even began to long for a bean pot of my very own. In an antique shop in western New York--one of those cluttered, junky, dusty, dirt cheap antique shops--I found a small bean pot. Chubby, brown on top, cream on the bottom. The right colors, the right shape, the right kind of handles, the right lid. Once in a long while, now make baked beans. …

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