FACE TO FACE
When Love Comes to Dinner Virginia Hughes
My mother, Frances, is blessed with good health in her nineties and remains an organized champion of cooking, efficiently completing household tasks and gardening every inch of her yard. Not a complainer, she raised eight children and birthed most of us in rustic conditions as a missionary overseas. For one family meal, Mom had prepared a delicious bean, pork and rice recipe from a missionary friend in Mexico. As we enjoyed it and added our compliments, Mom laughed and added we did not know how fortunate we were to have such flavorful beans lavished upon us. She had not been a fan of beans since her childhood until this recipe came along. We assumed her dislike for beans was because of war shortages or the Great Depression, but Mom shared about a difficult time in her life apart from those events. When she was eleven years old, her mother got sick. Two years later, her mother died and went to be with Jesus, which left the family’s table with a sad longing. Tears for their lost mother soon turned into beans boiled up in a pot they would eat for several days. Their sorrow compounded by the arrival of the one who came to help them get back on their feet. Hers was not the table they longed for. As their father, Oren, entered home after work, he would lament silently, “Beans, beans, beans! All Elda cooks is red beans.” He was thankful for a hot meal—don’t get him wrong. His sister Elda had moved in to help Oren and his three children, Dale, Frances and Doris, following the funeral of Roberta, his beloved wife, about a month earlier. Frances, now 13 years of age, insisted they did not need grumpy Aunt Elda. If someone must come, how about one of the friendly aunts, the ones who teased each other, sang in the kitchen and baked mile-high angel food cakes? Frances offered to be the cook herself. Hadn’t she learned from Mother for years? As Mother languished, Frances had washed the clothes, cooked dinners, ironed brother Dale’s shirts for a quarter per shirt and helped Doris with just about everything. She swept floors and cleaned all over the house. Had her father forgotten she also packed his lunch? Oren could not hold back tears, and neither could Frances as he choked out the words that such a young girl should not lose her mother and bear the burden of running a household. “It’s too much, Frances, please. Let Elda do it and maybe you can help her a little.” Frances nodded. Aunt Elda moved in and placed her giant stock pot in the sink with a loud clang to fill it with water. With a thunk, she set the pot on the stove and stirred in cups upon cups of red beans to boil. Frances peeked in the pot and thought, “That’s enough beans for an army.” Her heart sank when she realized that they were the army. Frances offered to help. No, Elda did not want Frances baking biscuits. Too messy. But Frances promised she would clean up any mess. She was old enough. No, they needed nothing else when beans were easy, filling and healthy. “But are they delicious?” Frances asked herself gloomily. Several days passed, and Elda had not varied from serving red beans for dinner and mush for breakfast. Older brother Dale found refuge from the beans by eating at the tables of agreeable friends and neighbors. Oren brought home meat and vegetables from the grocer. Elda did not prepare any of it. Oren asked if she had seen the food he brought. She had. Would she please cook those? Elda was unsure. Could she then make a grocery list of items she would rather cook instead? What perfect timing since Elda did in fact need more red beans, and a large bag of onions would be mighty fine too.
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