I was amused because one of my elderwriters, Barbara Wright, had written a series of stories about hardships her family endured in the 1930s, and one of their favorite foods was “Bean Hole Beans,” baked overnight in a big crockpot buried in a fire pit outdoors. Here’s her story.

Wood was plentiful, and they frequently had a campfire burning near their cabin. On bean cooking days, one of her brothers would rake the hot coals to one side and dig a hole slightly larger than Mom’s bean crock and about six inches deeper. The hot coals were then raked into the hole, and more wood added to warm the hole and earth around it.

While this was going on, their mother was in the cabin mixing up her batch of beans. Starting with dried white navy beans (soaking all night in the crock), she drained the water off. Now molasses, a chunk of salt pork, sugar and some mustard were combined in a very large bowl and transferred to the crock. Finally, warm water was added almost to the top.

The crockpot was heavy when filled, so Mom had the boys carry it to the fire pit. By now the coals in the hole had burned to a nice glow. A shovel of dirt was scattered over the hot coals.

The crock, with its cover held on tightly with wire, was then lowered into the hole by using a homemade sling.  The bottom of the sling was metal mesh with four stout wires extending up the sides, to protrude out of the ground.

Each wire had a loop at the top to facilitate lifting the heavy crockpot. With the crock placed in the hole, another shovel of dirt went over the top and around the sides.  Now, my older brother would get a good fire going over the top of the hole.

Someone was designated to stoke the fire, usually my little brother or me. We knew never to let it go out. From our tree-stump stools we watched the flames dance and smelled the wood smoke, pretending to be pioneers.

It took several hours in the hole, with the fire burning constantly, for the beans to bake.  At last, when Mother felt the beans were cooked to perfection, the fire was again raked to the side, and with the aid of heavy gloves and the wire loops, the crock emerged from its cozy hole.

As it was carried to the kitchen the whole family gathered for the opening of the bean crock. A few beans on the very top were often charred, but once they had been skimmed off, the baked beans were sheer delight. Having taken on a golden brown color, they swam in a semi-sweet juice we couldn’t resist. A plate of Mom’s Boston Baked Beans with a thick slice of homemade bread to sop up the juice was a perfect supper.

I hope Barbara Wright’s reminiscence will inspire some of you to write me about a special meal or food that you remember from childhood.

Jerry Lincecum is a retired English professor who now teaches classes for older adults who want to write their life stories.  He welcomes your reminiscences on any subject: jlincecum@me.com