Don Marquis's Very Special Baked Bean Recipe


                   From "The Almost Perfect State"
                              By Don Marquis
                     Doubleday, Page & Company
                                     1927


If you WILL eat beans, here is the way to prepare them.

First, you must have an earthenware Bean Pot, about six hands high, and
of a dark bay colour.  It is better if this Bean Pot is inherited from a
favourite grandmother, with a porous texture (the pot, not the
grandmother) that has absorbed and retained the sentimental traditions
of at least three generations.  But if you own no such heirloom (more
precious than the rubies of an imperial crown!)  a new one can be made
to do.

Procure your white navy beans, and pick them over on a Friday night, not
hastily or cursorily, but with love and care, one bean at a time, for
this is both an art and a science on which you have embarked--it is
more; it is almost a religious rite.  Cast from you all split beans, all
rusty or spotted beans, all too-wrinkly beans; save only such superior
beans, smooth, hard, and shining, as a twelve-months' old child would
love to poke up his nose.

Put these aristocrats to soak in water that has three or four
tablespoonfuls of baking soda in it.

Don't ask me why the soda.  I am not arguing with you.  I am telling
you.

Some people say that after these beans have soaked all night they are
ready to bake.

These people lie.

They are not ready to bake.

They are merely ready to boil.

Boil them from ten o'clock Saturday morning until noon, in a pot with a
piece of salt pork in it.  And time your boiling so that on the stroke
of twelve there is very little of the liquid remaining.  For they must
not go into the Sacred Earthenware Bean Pot, the Ancestral Amphora, too
soupy or sloppy.

Put into the bottom of the Bean Pot a layer of Beans four fingers deep.
Poke deeply into this one bay leaf.

Put on top of this a layer consisting of pieces of just the right kinds
of salt pork.

On top of the layer of pork, dribble a thin layer of thick New Orleans
molasses.

Put in another layer of beans.

Into this second layer poke four or five slender curling strips of
pungent shredded onion.  Put a dab of mustard on the onion.

Then a sparse layer of pork.  Then another dribbled layer of molasses.

Pause and put your Ego in harmony with the Cosmic All.

Build up these successive layers of beans, pork, and molasses,
alternating the subtle bay leaf with the poetic onion, until the pot is
filled within two inches of the top.  From time to time, a conservative
sprinkle of black pepper, as you work from the bottom upward.  From time
to time hum a verse of "Old Hundred."  Don't put in any salt; the pork
salts all.

Let the top layers of pork and molasses be a bit thicker than any of the
others.

Bake, slowly, in a moderate oven, from noon until six o'clock in the
evening.  Some say it must be a brick oven.  Nonsense!  Your Bean Pot
itself is your bricky heat-retaining medium.

Eat from six in the evening until midnight--and without fear of
indigestion.  The thorough cooking has taken all that sort of thing
away.

Each separate bean of all these beans retains its form--almost.  Almost.
Not quite.  Each bean is ready to melt tenderly into amalgamation with
his neighbor bean.  At the touch of the serving spoon the touched beans
lose their individual identity, yield up their pride, merge gently into
a kind of Bean Nirvana.

Some eat them with vinegar.  Very good.  Others with tomato catsup.  I
eat them with a squeeze of lemon juice.  Ambrosia!

                        Don Marquis
                        Appendix to "The Almost Perfect State"

Contributor's note:  I was privileged to attend in 1978 a celebration of
Don's 100th birthday.  Dinner included a serving of Don's Baked Bean
Nirvana Treat.