Baked Beans & Mom

I went to Boston Market for lunch. They had baked beans, which they hadn’t had for some time, so I ordered them as a side. I watched as the server scraped the tray clean to give me my beans, and was grateful I got the last of them.

Soon, I was sitting at table, munching on some veggies and the beans. As I ate the sweet tasting beans, I remembered how my mother loved slow cooked beans. She would cook up a potful every now and then at home. Later, when she was in the nursing home, we’d wheel her in her wheelchair over to KFC. They served baked beans. She would be happy then, smiling as she munched away.

Now it was me, eying the side of beans on my plate. As I did, I thought, “I’m eating these beans in honor of my mother.”

As I ate the beans, my thoughts wandered. Did Mom love baked beans because her family cooked them a lot when she was growing up? Or was this just a taste particular to her? I wondered if my Uncle Gordon had loved baked beans? If I asked my cousin, would he remember?

I became aware of a figure hovering by my table. I looked up. There stood the hostess, with a tub of baked beans in her hands.

She said, “I didn’t give you the normal serving of beans, so I’m giving you an extra side.”

She handed me the tub. I thanked her and put it on my tray to take home for later. What are the odds of that? I’ve never been given tubs of food before, and I’ve eaten here a lot. But then, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten baked beans before in honor of my mother.

I smiled to myself. “Thanks, Mom!”