The passing of a delicious torch

When your mom was born in New Orleans, it’s just a requirement that she has a family recipe for red beans and rice. Even if they hated beans. And rice. And beans and rice. They would still have to make it and pass it down to the next generation, even if they hated it too. It’s just their Louisiana obligation.

Luckily, they actually love it. My grandma made it for me every other time we went to her house (the other half was always spaghetti, not sure why). She poured loads of love into the day long process of cooking the savory comfort food. She had also, of course, taught all of her 7 kids how to make the meal. Some paid attention better than others. Some never made it again. My aunt’s was always too spicy and more chili like. My uncle got it pretty well, and I always looked forward to dinner at his when I would walk in and smell the simmering scent of my childhood.

My mom’s, however, was the very best, after my grandma’s. I’m not sure what it was, but beans and rice just always tasted better when served on one of her brown and white flowered plates, at her table. She poured her heart into every slice, chop, saute, and stir of that generations long recipe. My memories are filled with images of her standing next to the stove, tending to the deliciousness, careful never to let it burn (which I have learned is very easy to do!!).

Every hour or so, I would hear her voice calling for me, offering me a quick taste of a hot dog and some beans. Maybe my favorite part of the whole process. I slip some warm goodness into my mouth and take in the wonderful taste of bean gravy and nostalgia.

As I got older, my mom tried to get me to learn how to make it. But I resisted. I wanted hers (and I was probably a little lazy, lol) So for years, even after I had moved out, whenever she would make a batch, she would always save out some for me and freeze it until our next visit. Why would I need to learn when mom can still make it for me??

But as the years went on, she made it less because it didn’t agree with her stomach (a tragedy), so if I wanted it and wanted my family to become part of the tradition, I would finally have to learn how to make it. So, one day, my mom came to my house and passed the torch to me, the next generation. It was wonderful and also a bit somber, illustrating the passage of time. How we all grow older and move to different seasons of our life.

I’m glad I learned though. My children LOVE it. And they are picky eaters, especially my 5yo daughter. But they can eat plate after plate of it, just like their mama. My teachers always thought it was strange when they would ask my favorite food, and I would say, beans and rice. And now that’s what my kids tell their teachers. It feels like my grandma is still with us through her food this way. Like a part of her can still be with my kids, whom she never got a chance to meet.

And my daughter is not stubborn (in this way anyway) about learning the recipe. She already wants to help and know how to make it. Unfortunately, there’s not much she can help with yet, except pouring the beans into the empty pot and her favorite, checking for rocks. Yes, who knew there can be rocks in a bag of dried kidney beans. But believe it. The very first time she helped, we found 8!!

And so the delicious tradition lives on.