Goodness
He looked at his wife of so many years. He looked straight into her left eye as people do when they want to connect with the soul of another, then leaned forward in his chair. He pointed at the empty dish sitting before him on the dinner table. His lips moved as if he were about to speak, yet no sound came forth. He hesitated, swallowed, then leaned even further across the table. Finally, when the words formed in his mind, he said:
“These beans … they were …”
He still had trouble finding the words that would tell her of the profound feelings he wanted to convey; the colossal approval, the enormous compliment he wanted to pay her.
He tried again.
“They were as good as ... as good as … as … that day!”
He looked into the middle distance and began to remind her of that day.
That day 20 years ago when, just as the sun came up, and after slogging, knee-deep, for seven long miles in the dark – that day when I finally crossed over the top of that last snowy mountain and saw you standing in front of our house …
That day when you watched me limp through the last hundred yards of Colorado snow, getting just a foot closer to the house with each agonizing lurch, even while I fell perhaps twenty times – each time feeling a frigid wetness against my cheek as darkness closed in and threatened to steal away my vision, and when some part of me (somehow still conscious) told me to stand up and try yet again – that was the day I'm talking about.
I remember. You looked at me with a certain look. Was it pity or joy? Or both? You didn't say. All you said was, “Are you hungry?”
I nodded my head. My beard was covered with icicles that hung down as far as my chest. When I nodded, my chin moved up and down, up and down, up and down, and with each nod the icicles crashed against my overcoat, making a percussive sound, and sometimes, even a tinkling sound like that of tiny bells. “Yes,” I said. “I'm hungry. I haven't eaten for a week.”
Your voice held disappointment, sorrow. You said, “I wish I could give you a proper meal. But I've been snowed in for a week. All I have is a bag of beans. Come, I'll cook them for you.”
You took me by my arm and led me into the house. Sat me down and helped me pull my boots off my nearly frost-bitten feet. You put more wood on the fire because the power lines were down and the furnace didn't work. I watched as you gathered the bag of beans from the pantry and put them in a pot, then into the fireplace to boil, naked, with no salt pork, only a dash of salt and pepper. I put my boots in their usual resting place near the door. I hung my overcoat on its hook. The chill that seemed to start in my bones began to melt and my fingers and toes regained some feeling, prickly at first, as my blood warmed.
We ate those beans. And then … and then, oh … we went on. Living. Surviving. As people do.
That was the day. The day you saved my life with a bowl of beans. That day.
He stared at his wife of so many years, trying to read her face, waiting for her to remember and acknowledge his near death experience in the snow so long ago – the one that had buried his four-wheeler in a snowbank – and hoping, hoping beyond all hope she would understand the drama that day held for him, even now, for it had marked him permanently.
She stared back at him, remembering his struggle and remembering the meager meal she had served. “Yes, I remember that day. More than 20 years ago. That was the day you came home from hunting when a blizzard stranded you in the woods for a week. You told me that bowl of beans was the best thing you ever ate. You said that bowl of beans saved your life.”
He smiled at his wife and reached across the dinner table to put his hand atop hers. “Yes, my dear. That day.” He got up from the table and stood behind his wife's chair. He leaned over and put his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head.
He said, “Well dear, this dinner you served tonight? I was wrong. Dead wrong! I told you these beans tonight were better than the beans you gave me on that day. How could I have been so wrong?
“These beans … this food for the gods … they weren't only better. Tonight, my taste buds have grown new taste buds because they wanted to share the joy, the dazzling flavors, the textures that glided over my tongue and pleased my palate beyond imagination with every bite. I have never tasted beans as wonderful as these! Kings and princes and even gods themselves have never eaten such transcendent beans. These beans surpass those other beans like the sun outshines the moon. Like eternity outlasts this moment. My God, woman! What have you made?”
She looked at him and grimaced only half a grimace. The smile part of the half-grimace was to let him know she loved everything he had said about tonight's meal, while the other half that twisted her face wryly -- the half she wasn't able to withhold – expressed her having known him for so, so long; for having learned his faults and his merits so intimately that they sometimes seemed to be the same. And even though she had secretly come to enjoy even his faults, or at least to tolerate them, she squinted and that tiniest part of a grimace appeared. But in an instant, a wide smile grew across her face washing the grimace away.
A chuckle escaped her breath. It carried gratitude and love for the man who loved her. She stood up from her chair and began clearing the dinner table. “You silly old romantic!” she exclaimed as she carried the dishes to the sink. “These beans? You want to know about these beans?” She dropped the dirty dishes into the sink with a clatter. “They're Alton Brown's Best Ever Green Bean Casserole. I got the recipe off the Internet. Food Network. That's all.” She turned to face him. “Glad you liked 'em. I'll put the leftovers in the fridge. You can microwave 'em and finish them off in the morning.”
“These beans … they were …”
He still had trouble finding the words that would tell her of the profound feelings he wanted to convey; the colossal approval, the enormous compliment he wanted to pay her.
He tried again.
“They were as good as ... as good as … as … that day!”
He looked into the middle distance and began to remind her of that day.
That day 20 years ago when, just as the sun came up, and after slogging, knee-deep, for seven long miles in the dark – that day when I finally crossed over the top of that last snowy mountain and saw you standing in front of our house …
That day when you watched me limp through the last hundred yards of Colorado snow, getting just a foot closer to the house with each agonizing lurch, even while I fell perhaps twenty times – each time feeling a frigid wetness against my cheek as darkness closed in and threatened to steal away my vision, and when some part of me (somehow still conscious) told me to stand up and try yet again – that was the day I'm talking about.
I remember. You looked at me with a certain look. Was it pity or joy? Or both? You didn't say. All you said was, “Are you hungry?”
I nodded my head. My beard was covered with icicles that hung down as far as my chest. When I nodded, my chin moved up and down, up and down, up and down, and with each nod the icicles crashed against my overcoat, making a percussive sound, and sometimes, even a tinkling sound like that of tiny bells. “Yes,” I said. “I'm hungry. I haven't eaten for a week.”
Your voice held disappointment, sorrow. You said, “I wish I could give you a proper meal. But I've been snowed in for a week. All I have is a bag of beans. Come, I'll cook them for you.”
You took me by my arm and led me into the house. Sat me down and helped me pull my boots off my nearly frost-bitten feet. You put more wood on the fire because the power lines were down and the furnace didn't work. I watched as you gathered the bag of beans from the pantry and put them in a pot, then into the fireplace to boil, naked, with no salt pork, only a dash of salt and pepper. I put my boots in their usual resting place near the door. I hung my overcoat on its hook. The chill that seemed to start in my bones began to melt and my fingers and toes regained some feeling, prickly at first, as my blood warmed.
We ate those beans. And then … and then, oh … we went on. Living. Surviving. As people do.
That was the day. The day you saved my life with a bowl of beans. That day.
He stared at his wife of so many years, trying to read her face, waiting for her to remember and acknowledge his near death experience in the snow so long ago – the one that had buried his four-wheeler in a snowbank – and hoping, hoping beyond all hope she would understand the drama that day held for him, even now, for it had marked him permanently.
She stared back at him, remembering his struggle and remembering the meager meal she had served. “Yes, I remember that day. More than 20 years ago. That was the day you came home from hunting when a blizzard stranded you in the woods for a week. You told me that bowl of beans was the best thing you ever ate. You said that bowl of beans saved your life.”
He smiled at his wife and reached across the dinner table to put his hand atop hers. “Yes, my dear. That day.” He got up from the table and stood behind his wife's chair. He leaned over and put his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head.
He said, “Well dear, this dinner you served tonight? I was wrong. Dead wrong! I told you these beans tonight were better than the beans you gave me on that day. How could I have been so wrong?
“These beans … this food for the gods … they weren't only better. Tonight, my taste buds have grown new taste buds because they wanted to share the joy, the dazzling flavors, the textures that glided over my tongue and pleased my palate beyond imagination with every bite. I have never tasted beans as wonderful as these! Kings and princes and even gods themselves have never eaten such transcendent beans. These beans surpass those other beans like the sun outshines the moon. Like eternity outlasts this moment. My God, woman! What have you made?”
She looked at him and grimaced only half a grimace. The smile part of the half-grimace was to let him know she loved everything he had said about tonight's meal, while the other half that twisted her face wryly -- the half she wasn't able to withhold – expressed her having known him for so, so long; for having learned his faults and his merits so intimately that they sometimes seemed to be the same. And even though she had secretly come to enjoy even his faults, or at least to tolerate them, she squinted and that tiniest part of a grimace appeared. But in an instant, a wide smile grew across her face washing the grimace away.
A chuckle escaped her breath. It carried gratitude and love for the man who loved her. She stood up from her chair and began clearing the dinner table. “You silly old romantic!” she exclaimed as she carried the dishes to the sink. “These beans? You want to know about these beans?” She dropped the dirty dishes into the sink with a clatter. “They're Alton Brown's Best Ever Green Bean Casserole. I got the recipe off the Internet. Food Network. That's all.” She turned to face him. “Glad you liked 'em. I'll put the leftovers in the fridge. You can microwave 'em and finish them off in the morning.”