Pig 'N Beans

For most of us, the post-high school years were our first taste of independence and self-sufficiency.  Food, Clothing and Shelter were now on us; no more Mommy and Daddy to shepherd us in our daily sojourn.  We were well-intentioned, but, most of our efforts were comedic in the least and occasionally bordered on the tragic.

Take Cooking. 

I remember watching students eat some the most God awful products from canned ravioli and Spaghetti-Os to the PBJ Diet and finally, Top Ramen.  This Bowl 'o Noodles had enough sodium to cure a ham, but, at the time cost 10 cents per portion, on sale.  Perfect for the proverbial College Student budget.  Had to save money for beer on the weekend, right?!

Fortunately, I learned early on by watching a Master, that convenience foods were not an option; either for the budget or the palate.

My mom cooked daily from scratch and we grew up struggling financially, but, what that lady could do with a few onions, a ham hock, dried pinto beans and a pan of corn bread was nothing short of artistry.
We would pick through the dried beans like sorting coins for a wheat penny and eliminate the small bits of stone and dirt.  Mom made a game of it for biggest, smallest and most pieces of foreign matter as we sat at the smooth, worn, oak kitchen table pushing beans around like preparing for a game of  dominoes.
She would then soak them overnight in enough cold water to cover the pintos by a couple of inches.  Miraculously, the water was gone in the morning and the beans had swelled up to double their size. 

An 8-quart pot was heated on the ivory colored, porcelain coated, cast iron Wedgewood stove.  A gob of bacon grease from a coffee can located under the kitchen sink plopped to the bottom and slowly melted releasing microscopic bits of burned, cured pork.  Diced onion was saute'd till transparent; beans, ham hock, a tablespoon each of Chili Powder and Italian Seasoning were combined with the beans.  Covered all with water and a lid, brought to a boil and reduced to a simmer.  Now the hard part:

Waiting.

While the right amount of salt, spice and texture were important, the ham hock was the lynch pin for this soon-to-be glorious pot of comfort and no ordinary ham bone would do.

 
We had to go to see "Charlie."

Charlie Wong was the lead butcher at the Daylite Market on Main St. in Watsonville, CA.  When a quality cut or special event needed consultation, he was the go-to guy. 
Mom parked the '56 Mercury Station Wagon in the back parking lot and we walked in directly to the meat counter on the left side of the store.  White cooler cases with bulging, thick glass presented rows of chops, tied roasts, ground beef, sausages and my favorite hot dogs. 

"Hello, Mrs. Jack!  What I get fo you too-day?!"  His Cantonese accent was thick as Hoisin sauce, the chatter of Chinese meat cutters behind him reminded me of feeding ducks at the park.
 
"Hi Charlie.  Well, I need a leg of lamb for Sunday dinner and a ham hock for my beans,"  she informed him as she lifted me up to watch the guys swinging cleavers and passing massive joints of meat through the band saw.  I rested my elbows on the counter as I planted my toes at the base of the glass. 
The floor was covered with sawdust, the men's white, 3/4 length coats smeared with beef fat and red streaks.  Charlie's was different; he had blue ink trailing into his left breast pocket where he tucked his  19 cent, BIC ball point pen.  There was a suspended metal rack that ran above the work stations with simple, stainless steel hooks on pulleys.  That was for swinging sides of carcasses to be broken down after they've been dry-aged in the coolers.

"Which numbah this one, Mrs. Jack?" he asked as he handed me a cold hot dog wrapped in tissue paper. 
"This is #4, Charlie.  His name is Brian."  Charlie then looked at me.
"Ohhhh, this is Beeg Boy!  Very strong.  Beeg muss-oze!" 
I smiled and flexed my 5 year old bicep to impress him.
"Ohhhh, yes...VERY beeg muss-oze!" he smiled, opening wide his Asian eyes in feigned astonishment. 

He reached into the case, grabbed the ham hock and leg of lamb, slapping each into a diamond square of butcher paper, rolling and tucking, then writing the price on the tape that sealed the package. 

"OK, Mrs. Jack!  Thank you, thank you!  OK, bye-bye, Numbah Foh!"
He waved us out, spun to his cadre and delivered orders in Cantonese once again.
The ducks responded in kind. 

The aroma of smoked pork simmering would permeate every corner of the house and draw people from out in the yard; whining and 'starving' kids would willingly wash up to the elbows with hot water and soap for a bowl of Mom's Beans.  Kids that weren't part of the family would hover around the back door praying for an in-vite. 

"Mrs. Quinn, can I call my mom to eat over here tonight?  Pleeeeease-uh!?"

Mom always had an extra plate and seat at the table. 

Stacked cornbread squares sat on a tray in the middle of the table with butter and a squeezable Honey Bear on the side. 

Grace was said. 

Silence followed for about 5-7 seconds as the first bites were consumed.  

"Mom!  This is SO good!"  

"Mrs. Quinn, you're like the BEST cook!"  

Voices became muffled as mouths filled with cornbread.  The ham hock had melted into the beans; the skin and bone removed.  Tender, middle-purple hued meat was flaked with a fork and dispersed into the pot.  Each bean was cooked to perfection and gently gave to the slightest pressure, creating a creamy, coating, mouth-feel.  The smoky flavor infused every heaping spoonful.

The gulps, grunts and 'mmmm-MMMs' of hungry boys does a cook's heart well; my mom really WAS the best cook around.  She stretched dollars, used her spice cabinet, was an expert technician and had a genuine passion for preparing outstanding, yet, often simple meals.  

Her one guiding principle underscored every effort: 

"Prepare food with Love.  It's every cook's secret ingredient."  

Take care, God bless and remember: 

"Food, Faith, Family and Friends, 

the Best Things in Life aren't Things!"

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