Saturday night is bean night!
Well folks, it’s vacation time, which means that instead of spending most of my time lolling around the portable bar, sipping one concoction or another, I plan on spending all my time in this pursuit, at least for the next few weeks. As such, my output will likely be even thinner than usual. Luckily, like the sturdy ant in the parable about the grasshopper and the violin and some other equally edifying, thoroughly boring stuff, I have squirreled away a large supply of posts over the past couple of years, and since virtually no one but my mother read my blog for the first year or so, they will no doubt seem fresh and new to most of you. If they don’t, I suggest skipping the reread and joining me in a Bloody Mary or three. Remember, it’s the drink that eats like a meal, my friends.
In Maine, back in the Bronze Age when I grew up, it was traditional to have Boston baked beans on Saturday night, and by this I mean every Saturday night. Now, there were families that just heated up a can of B&M, dumped some coleslaw from Shaw’s into a bowl, steamed up the brown bread and called it a night. Not mine. For us, baked beans represent serious tradition. Grammie Sue baked her own, as do my parents, and so do I. In the past, I have even made my own brown bread, but I cannot in good conscience urge you to do so; just buy the can. Making brown bread is a pain in the bean shoot.
Why Saturday night?, I’ll bet you’re wondering. Well, I can only guess, but my hunch is that it has something to do with the Puritan mania for mortification of the flesh. Let…
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