Once Bitten, Twice Fried

This is just a little trip down memory lane, as I was inspired by Joanna to recall.

Back in the early spring of my budding culinary wanderings, I was trusted to feed myself -- using the gas stove and all -- by age 9. While yogurt was often good enough on a lazy day, I made what if combined would be an ominous, oozy sky-scraper of grilled-cheese sandwiches, quesadillas, and, as my family refers to them, cheese noodles. Entertaining oneself as a 9-year-old in TC for an entire summer for me meant running around the yard, climbing the enormous old cherry tree, riding my bike over hills both paved and in orchards and woods, and most frequently, swimming. All of these activities apparently develop a needy furnace satiated by hearty injections of dairy.

Joanna didn't come to my house very often, so we made the most of the time to swim ourselves prune-y and subsequently restore balance to the universe by dehydrating in the sun. Eventually, our little bodies required some nourishment. KoolAid, anyone? Yum. How about we get down to business with a bean burrito? Alas -- ! No refried beans graced the cupboards. A strange sense of self-confidence came upon me as I turned to Joanna with aplomb, narrowed my eyes with Christian Slater-like mischievous intensity, and said, "Let's just make our own."

We mashed kidney beans with abandon, sprinkled spices (at that time, mom's stock averaged an age of fifteen or so years old), and ended up with something quite...delicious.

Is there a moral or a message here? Is necessity the mother of invention? Do we need to come together in hard times to make the most of what we have, and throw dull care away? Perhaps those beans are a reverent, wise ancestor in the lineage of this quest to create the winning Pillsbury Bake-Off recipe. O, humble beans, how far we have come!