Helen's Green Beans

Grandma’s kitchen is a sepia-toned memory of Hoosier cabinets and a glass double boiler, of apple pies fresh out of the oven and fudge cooling in the pan, of the clatter of pint jars and the trill of birdsong through an open window. Grandma's kitchen is spacious and sunlit, with the original oaken cabinets of the depression era affixed with glass knobs and hung with tea towels hand-embroidered in the motif of her choice. Grandma’s kitchen is spotlessly clean but welcoming, with a vast porcelain sink, a dish cloth and a metal pad she refers to as a chore boy, a straw broom and a dustpan standing sentinel in the corner. Grandma’s Kitchen is rich with the blooming smells of roasting turkey, simmering jam, cakes baking, percolating coffee. Grandma’s kitchen is truly the hub of the home, where good food, the making of it and the sharing of it and the sharing of the making of it, meet to make meltingly lovely memories. During this month of remembrance, I devote a column to each of the powerful matriarchal figures from my life, as I honor the profound effect each of these women had on me by recalling their very different kitchens, and by sharing a blue ribbon recipe that was the signature of each kitchen and the woman who inhabited it.

As with Ellen, Helen was not a grandmother but a mother. She was my husband’s mother, and as powerful and understandable an influence as she had on him, she also meant a lot to me. Anyone who has a mother-in-law will tell you that the relationship can be a complicated one. In this respect I lucked out, because my mother-in-law was a lovely lady, still as human as anyone else, but just absolutely lovely. She loved impressionist art and long evenings on the porch and good food and drink. She was always a force of kindness and warmth, and how lucky I am that she transmitted these sterling qualities to her son.

 

Since you asked, I do think it gave her a start to learn that her son’s partner, eventually spouse, was going to be another man. But if that was true, it was only true initially, and mostly proceeded not from shock but from having her suspicions confirmed. She evaluated me to be sure, but she did so with most of the same standards as she would have a female suitor. That spoke of her willingness to accept me as a partner rather than fighting it.

 

This pluckiness and equity displayed themselves throughout our time together. Helen and I found much common ground, not the least of which was loving her son. She loved visiting us in New York, doing so for what turned out to be the last time when she was weakening physically but was as strong as ever mentally and emotionally. I think she was proud of her son’s marriage, even if it was in quiet ways of simple welcome and respect rather than the fireworks and rainbows of the Pride-marching PFLAG mom. Yes, there were complicated moments, but her acceptance didn’t have to be coaxed: it was a fact. Almost anyone with a mother-in-law will tell you, that is indeed a rare gift, and it is a profoundly meaningful one.

 

I was never in Helen’s kitchen but I know from John that it was a spacious, well-appointed room of pale blue and burnished oak. I don’t want to betray his memories by cataloguing his favorite dishes from his mom’s kitchen, but one I can share, and that brings us full circle this Thanksgiving, is her green beans.

 

Southern ladies are supposed to grow tomatoes, and Helen probably did, but she was known for her green beans. Yearly, there was quite a yield. One day late summer, she and her husband would work their way to the plants, to pick the vines of beans that had grown strong and flavorful in southern sunshine. There followed a couple of leisurely afternoons of snapping the beans and chopping them in anticipation of another day’s labor at the pressure canner. What emerged, sealed in quart jars, were the essence of simple, good food: fresh green beans, grown with love, prepared with pride, and preserved by nothing other than water, salt and effort.

 

Every year around November, we got a shipment of a couple of jars of those beans. We always had them with our Christmas ham, which along with the phone calls and the cards and the emails was a way of keeping family close on Christmas day. But they are equally good on Thanksgiving. Below is the recipe for preparing southern green beans. I cannot state that this recipe directly came from Helen, but we discussed it many times, and I know that she approved of this method. In her honor, I am officially crowning this recipe with Helen’s name – the memories are already sealed inside.

 

Helen’s Southern Green Beans

If you do not have home-canned green beans, clean and snap about two pounds of fresh ones and use those.

 

1 quart home-canned green beans

1 small Spanish onion

3 small white potatoes

3 slices bacon

Dried parsley

Salt

Freshly ground black pepper

1. Open the beans. They should smell fresh and slightly salty. Do not use the beans if they exhibit an off smell or any noticeable black or gray discoloration or floating mold or mildew.
2. Empty the beans into a colander. Rinse the beans thoroughly and leave the colander in the sink to drain.
3. Place the slices of bacon in a large saucepan or stock pot. Place the pan/pot on the stovetop and turn the burner to low.
4. Carefully use the knife to remove and discard the stem and cap ends of the onion. Peel the onion. Slice the peeled onion in half crosswise so that it forms two halves. Slice across the halves to form half-moons. Slice across the half moons to form dice. Measure one cup of diced onion and add that to the bowl containing the herbed bread mixture. Use your hands to mix the ingredients together.
5. Peel the potatoes and rinse them under cool water. Safely use a sharp knife to cut the potatoes into coins about ½ inch thick. Add the cut potatoes to the pan/pot containing the bacon and onion.
6. Lift the colander from the sink and give it a good shake to express the last of the water. Empty the beans into the pan/pot.
7. Sprinkle the beans with salt, dried parsley, and several grindings of freshly ground pepper.
8. Pour ¼ cup water into the pan/pot.
9. Cover the pan/pot and cook on low until all of the ingredients are cooked through and very tender, approximately 3 hours. Check the mixture every so often to stir it and add more water if the pan/pot runs dry.