I’ve tasted more than 700 recipes from our Southern Living Insiders Recipe Vault, but one bite of these butterbeans took me back to my childhood so fast, I felt like I was riding with Michael J. Fox in a time-traveling Delorean.
When I was growing up, my grandmother made lunch for us every Sunday. Not just Easter or Christmas—every single Sunday. And no matter the season, butterbeans were always on the menu.
She and my grandfather lived in a neighborhood in west Jackson, Mississippi, with a big yard that allowed them just enough space to grow a few fresh vegetables in the summer. And while she may have grown butterbeans at some point in her life, I’m pretty sure most of the ones my grandmother cooked for me came straight from the freezer.
But I was a kid. Back then, farms didn’t matter to me. What did matter was the sweet, buttery flavor of my grandmother’s butterbeans. At some point during my childhood, May (my grandmother) confided in me that if you can’t get fresh butterbeans, you can add a pinch of sugar to help frozen ones taste a little more like fresh-picked ones.
As a kid, the idea of adding sugar to vegetables felt transcendental. I was so obsessed with the idea that one Sunday, while my grandmother was cooking dinner, I made a flippant, impulsive decision that turned out to be a grave transgression. As she was frying chicken at the stove, I reached my hand in the sugar bowl, grabbed an eight-year-old-size handful of sugar, and tossed it in her pot of butterbeans.
My grandmother and I were tight. I was her first grandchild; ours was a bond unequaled in the family. There was a singular sweetness between us, a gentle kindness that permeated our every interaction.
That’s why I was SHOCKED when she reached over and slapped the back of my hand gently. “Don’t you put sugar in my butterbeans,” she said, a rare stern stare furrowing her brow.
I can still feel that sting on the back of my hand, the coarse grains of sugar still clinging to my palm, the shame hotter than fried chicken grease. “Yes ma’am,” I answered, contritely, backing away from the stove like a suspect at a crime scene who’s just surrendered his weapon.
That specific butterbean incident was just a wee pebble in the long road of my relationship with my grandmother. It’s the only time that she ever laid a hand on me. But it taught me a valuable lesson: Never—under any circumstances—season another cook’s butterbeans.
Otherwise you’ll get what’s coming to you.
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Dining and Cooking