Clara Beth didn't remember that she'd promised to fill the cast iron bean pot for the Smithville Annual Bean Hole Bean Pot supper until late Friday afternoon when she received the call that the bean hole was prepared, the embers hot and ready. "Almost ready," she lied. What else could she do. Losing face would have the townspeople ribbing her about her memory for as long as she lived.
She'd do what she'd done last year and the year before.
"Stanley," she called into the house. No answer. He was probably in his workshop. She walked down the stairs to the garage. "Stanley."
"What's the hurry?" He'd stepped out of the shop so quickly he still held a Philips screwdriver in his gloved hands.
"Run to the store and buy canned pork and beans."
"Again?"
"Next year, I promise."
One thing about Stanley, he was a good sport, and in ten minutes, he'd gotten his wallet, put on his old camouflage jacket and hat, and backed their Jeep Waggoner out the garage and down the driveway.
She stood watching him go and he was down the street and around the block before she thought to tell him how many cans, and more importantly, what brands to get. Well, all she could do was get started with peeling and slicing onions, and dicing and frying bacon.
She fielded three phone calls from the fire pit crew asking her how much longer, found the cast iron pot tucked on a lower shelf in the back of Stanley's workshop and rinsed it out, and put the bacon and onions in it. "Come on, Stanley, hurry up," she said to no one.
An hour and a half later, she heard the squeal of his brakes — she never understood why it took him so long to take the jeep in for repairs or what he meant by saying he saved all sorts of money by waiting until the brakes were about done with before he replaced them — and the garage door open. She hurried out to help him bring in the bags of cans.
"Had to go to two different places," Stanley wheezed. "You didn't tell me how many you needed."
"Never mind," she said. "Just hurry."
She set the cans of beans on the countertop. Regular beans and pork. Oh no, barbecue beans and western beans. Well, she'd start with the familiar brands and if there weren't enough to fill the pot, she'd have to add those. She handed Stanley a can opener and reached for a second one and the two of them opened cans and poured them into the pot. She hadn't watched what Stanley opened and before she could stop him, he'd poured in the barbecue beans. Probably no one would notice.
They were down to needing only a few more cans. Stanley gathered all the opened cans into a large trash bag. She peered into the pot. She had no choice but to add the western beans. She opened the can and the tang of chili and cumin hit her nose. After sixteen hours of further cooking, all the flavors would have melded.
There was a knock at the door. The fire pit guys always came to haul the filled pot to the hole. She emptied the last three cans without looking at the labels and Stanley swept them into the bag and carried it down the hall to drop it into the bathtub. She could just barely stir the mess and there wouldn't be time to taste them. She set the cast iron lid on top.
"Come in," she called. "All ready to go."
One thing about the guys, they never asked questions. After they were gone, she sat down at the kitchen table, staring out into the yard, and telling herself that next year, she'd try to plan better. She was grateful that Stanley wouldn't bug her about her forgetfulness.
*
Bean Hole suppers were scheduled for 4:30 on Saturday evenings.
Stanley and Clara Beth arrived ten minutes late, and by then there was a line at the serving table, each person holding a durable paper plate. The bean pot was set just outside the Grange Hall's side door, which meant the plates were passed up to the front, a ladle of hot beans dropped on it, and then it was passed back to the owner.
She decided she'd skip the line and stand directly at the door. The beans smelled wonderful, with a strong scent of sweetness, and a subtle one of spice. Her spoonful of beans had the right consistency, the bacon and onions blended into the sauce. No one would be able tell whether she'd started with dried beans or canned ones. She continued along the table and filled her plate with two fresh rolls, a slice of butter, and cole slaw. She decided against hot dogs and took a slab of baked ham instead.
Somewhere in the hall, someone coughed and sputtered. "Hot!"
Clara Beth stared at her plate. It was probably Rusty. That man complained about everything.
"You've got a new recipe, Clara Beth," Yvonne Scott crowed from two tables away. The woman could out-perform a rooster.
All Clara Beth could do was nod. She turned back to her plate and took a bite of the beans. They were a little bit spicy. "Taste the beans," she hissed to Stanley.
"Best ones you've made so far," he whispered back.
By the end of the evening, that seemed to be the consensus — she'd outdone herself. The ladies wanted the recipe and she said it was her secret. Everyone accepted that, except for the busybody Nellie Kent who kept badgering her about how unfair it was of her to keep the recipe to herself.
And the secret was kept from Clara Beth, too, because Stanley had hauled the several dozen empty cans to the transfer station early that Saturday morning.
BIO: Brigitte Whiting lives in Maine. She has completed both the Nonfiction and 3-Year Fiction MFAs at Writers' Village University. Her work has appeared in Village Square and Literary Yard online journals, and in Wit, Wisdom and Whimsy, a collection of poems by her local poetry group, Monday Morning Poets.
A Pot Full of Beans
