My mom died in 2005. With her passed from this life a magnificent cook who lived by the "pinch and taste" method of culinary greatness. Although I tried to prepare for the inevitable, asking her to jot down favorite recipes and methods, it wasn't until she was gone that I realized how woefully incomplete my preparation had been.
In the years that have followed, I've spent a good deal of time trying to figure things out. Some have been easy ... the tasty home made banana cake with peanut butter frosting she made every year for my birthday, or the "dough-glob" soup of boiled broth topped with baking mix, spooned noodles that waited for me after a cold, winter walk home from the bus stop.
Others, however, have come by trial and painful error. Just yesterday, I took baked beans to a friend's gathering. My friends went on and on about the amazing beans ... and seconds and thirds flew from the buffet table.
My mom always made amazing baked beans. No cans were harmed in the process; from dry beans and simple ingredients, she would whip up a taste of summer that was renowned among family and friends alike. But her beans were one of those recipes that I asked about numerous times, and always got the same answer - "Oh, I just soak them, then throw in some ketchup, mustard, and brown sugar. Bake them for a while, and they're good to go."
The first time I made Mom's beans, I did exactly that. Sadly, I had to stop at the store and buy something else, because they were uneatable, hard, and tasteless. I could almost hear my mom laughing from the great beyond ... her magical beans and their ability to usher in warm, family memories went to the grave with her.
But I was determined not to let this priceless recipe fade with time. I set about perfecting the bean recipe, going on what I knew and the flavor of my mom's beans I remembered. Sometimes, I met with great success. Others, I was left with half-cooked beans, or beans so overwhelmed with the taste of mustard I had to throw them away.
One night, as I was approaching the bean dilemma again, I pulled a long-forgotten memory to the front of my brain. We were preparing for what would be the first of many wonderful family reunions at a local park. My mom, with her great love of family, had worked to make sure every family member still alive was invited. She was making her baked beans, and my husband and little boy were spending the night at my parent's home in preparation for the reunion.
Again, I asked my mom: "So, how do you make these beans so incredible?"
She gave me the much-repeated party line, and I told her, "Mom, you're keeping something from me. I've made these beans dozens of times, with only marginal success."
"Well," she said, wiping her hands on her apron, "tell me exactly what you do." I read her the litany of bean preparation. When I finished, she asked me a simple question: "How long do you bake them for?"
"The back of the bean bag says an hour and a half," I relayed.
She shook her head. "Honey, that's the problem!" And she proceeded to tell me about boiling the beans the night before, and letting them soak. The next morning, she'd wash them gently, and then put them back in the pot. She's add new water (or stock, on occasion), and then start with the add-ins: ketchup, mustard, brown sugar, bacon, salt, pepper. "Then, I put them on low early in the morning, and let them soak up all the goodies all morning long. By the afternoon, they're good to go."
Time! Time was the missing ingredient that my mom forgot to tell me about. It didn't matter what I added to the beans until I'd given them the time they needed to soften, to absorb all the goodness, and then to simmer into the perfect picnic side dish.
It's ironic, that time is the necessary ingredient of most good memories, too. Just like my mom's beans, the longer the good memories soak in the sweetness, over time they become tastier, and treasured - softer, and more palatable. Every time I make the beans, I'm transported back to a sunny afternoon, mesmerized by my mom and her motions and her apron, and her smile. And just like my mom's recipe, the memories are priceless.