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When
Houston’s First Presbyterian
Church published its “Texas Cook Book” in 1883, the collection
of recipes believed to be the first ever produced in the Lone Star
State snubbed the pinto bean.
The cook book did offer a long recipe for Boston Baked Beans, but
that dish has about as much to do with true Texas fare as enchiladas
have to do with Alaska. The editors of the venerable Galveston
News, however, understood the value of just plain beans.
“The cheapest and most nutritious vegetable used for food is beans,”
the News reported in the winter of 1868. “Professor Liebeg says that
pork and beans form a compound of substances peculiarly adopted to
furnish all that is necessary to support life.”
The article noted that a quart of beans cost 15 cents, with a half-pound
of pork retailing for a dime. “This, as every housekeeper knows, will
feed a small family for a day with good, strengthening food.”
Indeed, pinto beans were a staple in 19th century Texas
and continue to be today, but their history goes back even further.
The Spanish explorer Coronado
and his fellow conquistadors are believed to have been the first Europeans
to sit down to a bowl of beans in the Southwest, having obtained them
from Indians who cultivated them in what is now New Mexico.
By the time of Texas’ Anglo colonization,
pinto beans (better known in the Southwest as frijoles or Pecos
Strawberries) had become ubiquitous. But not until Texas
started getting all urbane did it occur to anyone that how to cook
them should be codified. Before then, folks apparently just took it
for granted that anyone could cook a pot of beans.
True
bean aficionados, however, understand that while the basic steps in
bean-cooking are simple, artistry lies in the details. Those details
usually involve what goes into the pot besides the beans. The late
Fred Gipson, author of “Old Yeller” and other books, insisted
that beans were not fit to eat unless they had been cooked with a
whole apple.
Camping at Castle
Gap, a landmark on the well-worn old trail toward Horsehead
Crossing on the Pecos,
I once enjoyed a serving or two of pinto beans cooked with nopal.
The cactus made an interesting mix with the pintos.
Sitting with us around the campfire that night was Paul Patterson,
an old cowboy and long-retired English teacher from Crane.
His claims to fame included his poetry, the fact that Western novelist
Elmer Kelton was a former student and his storytelling ability.
As we chowed down on those beans, Patterson told us about a youngster
named Whistler who had a very famous mom. He did poorly as an infant,
much to the consternation of Mrs. Whistler. In desperation, she took
her son to West Texas,
hoping the dryer climate would improve his constitution. Even so,
the boy stayed pretty puny until she took to feeding him burro’s milk
and ample quantities of frijoles.
Happily, the child grew into a robust young man who took up cowboying.
Not only did he have his health back thanks to all the beans he ate,
a fellow waddy bestowed him with a nickname – Mother’s Whistler
That raises the downside of pinto beans, their well-known propensity
to embarrass their consumers. Over the years, long before commercially
available pharmaceuticals, Texans swore by a variety of remedies.
Cooks tossed everything from squail nails to mineral oil into their
beans in the belief it would take the wind out of them.
Naturalist
and writer Roy
Bedichek told fellow writer J. Frank
Dobie another campfire story about beans:
A party of hunters returning to their high country camp discovered
that someone had raided it in their absence. The men readily discerned
that the intruder had been a bear. Not only had the bruin ransacked
their tents, he had ingested an entire pot of beans left to simmer
all day over the campfire.
It normally takes a trained bear hound to trail and tree such a critter,
but in this case, the hunters did not have a dog. Turned out they
didn’t need one. Even their less-developed human olfactory abilities
proved sufficient to locate the thieving bear. All they had to do
was stay quiet and try to keep upwind until they could get a shot.
A
final bean tale involves a traveling salesman making his last call
of the day at a rustic homestead deep in the piney woods of East
Texas. The widower farmer invites the drummer to unhitch his team
and stay for the night. The knight of commerce demurs until the farmer’s
beautiful daughter appears. She smiles, winks and allows as how they’re
having beans for supper.
Accompanied by slices of home-grown onions and hot, buttered cornbread
that would make a man slap his mamma just for another bite, the beans
had been cooked to perfection. With proper feigned reluctance, the
salesman accepts every offer of another serving. All the while, the
lovely daughter becomes increasingly cordial toward the handsome visitor.
Finally, it’s time to turn in. The farmer explains that while they
have only one bed, he would sleep in the middle so the salesman would
have no cause for embarrassment. Not long after the farmer blows out
the lantern, he hears a commotion in the chicken house, jumps out
of bed to grab his shotgun, and storms out of the cabin in his longjohns.
“Now’s your chance,” the daughter whispers.
Hearing that, the salesman springs from the feather-stuffed mattress,
sprints toward the stove and wolfs down the last of those beans.
© Mike Cox
"Texas Tales" December
7, 2011 column
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