Pork 'n Beans

I was digging through my cupboard the other day and I came across a stray can of Pork and Beans. My mind drifted back to my childhood days when we would often be served Pork and Beans. I loved them straight from the can. My mother would often remember this and dish me out some before heating up the rest of the can for every one else.

But there's something else I remember. It's that huge chunck of white fat that was inevitably in the can. Do you remember that chunk of fat? Floating there in its ominous way. This piece of fat always wound up on one of our plates and no one wanted to get it. I don't ever recall my parents insisting that we eat the fat, but growing up we generally were expected to eat what was served so none of us wanted to take the chance of getting it just in case we were expected to eat it. I still remember how it grossed me out but at the same time fasinated me by the way it wiggled and jiggled. I knew it was great for poking around at but not for human consumption.

One evening it was pork and bean night and as I came to the table to sit at my usual spot, there, on my plate was that cube of fat smack in the middle of my beans. Now times like this call for desperate measures so I sat down in my brother's chair. He was not about to get stuck with the fat so he protested, "Mom, Rebecca is in my spot." Mom pointed out that the cold pork and beans were on my plate and I needed to move.

I slunk back to my chair. During the meal I'm sure I probably tried to slip that grotesque lump onto my brother's plate but it didn't work. All of us kids were saavy at the defense-against-other-peoples'-food-put-on-our-plates. I sat at that table poking around, hoping that if every one left I could dispose of fat in a napkin or something. Eventually everyone cleared out but my brother. I don't know if he was there for moral support or if we were both assigned to dish duty that night, but for whatever reason, we were in the kitchen together.

What happens next, I'm not entirely proud of, but hopfully 25 years later all will be forgiven. David and I began a game of "toss the nasty fat onto each other's plates." I'd throw it on his plate, he'd throw it back. Of course this made us laugh. Then the spoons got brought out in order for better launching. We'd say to each other, "I'm not eating it!" "Well I'm not eating it!" The launching began which caused hysterics in us. On the last launch the fat went straight up in the air, hit the ceiling and stuck there.

Silence.

Then fits of laughter followed by Dad checking up on us. Dad came in the kitchen and stood precariously close to being directly under the chunk that could only defy gravity for so long. I knew this was not going to end well. However, miraculously that piece of fat clung to the ceiling and stayed just until my dad started leaving and then it fell into a glass. I thought maybe dad had seen it fall but he left the kitchen so it must have escaped his notice. A whispered huddle between David and me and it was agreed that we were not telling anyone about the fat.

For many days after wards a greasy, reddish spot remained on the ceiling. I tried not to look at it during meals but would often sneak a look fascinated about that hunk of fat that had stayed up there. It provided me many quiet smiles and later in life many good laughs as I recall the memory. The stain is long gone but I can't help but wonder what someone thought as they painted our ceiling as they came to that stained spot.

And so I usually keep a can of pork and beans around, if nothing else just to open the can and see if they still put those white fat chunks in there and if so, perhaps reach for a spoon---to eat the beans of course. (: