Leo weighed 250 pounds and had the disposition of a cobra. : The Pork and Beans Tradition
You probably never met my Uncle Leo. I think of him especially today, a day of gluttony and bad manners, not to mention cruelty to birds, because he used to spread pork and beans over his turkey dinner. Even the cranberry sauce.
Every Thanksgiving, Leo would sit around drinking straight shots with beer chasers and, when called to feast, would mutter something to his girlfriend, Gloria.
A whispery woman who tiptoed when she walked, Gloria would find the host or hostess and ask if they had a can of pork and beans.
The first time this happened, which is to say the first Thanksgiving Leo spent with the family, I was the host.
My wife is a gourmet cook, and when Gloria asked for pork and beans I wanted to know why.
“It’s for Leo,” she whispered. “He loves to spice his food.”
Leo weighed 250 pounds and had the disposition of a cobra, so I gave him his pork and beans, right in the can.
It would have been useless and possibly dangerous to explain to him that the Indians served the early settlers turkey without pork and beans, so I didn’t.
Leo scooped out the contents of the can and, with ritualistic precision, employed the back of a spoon to spread the beans carefully over his lavish Thanksgiving dinner, applying enough pressure to flatten them on the turkey.
We watched in horror at first, and then in fascination.
The event became a kind of family tradition. Each year, dinner was held at the home of a different family member, and whoever hosted the dinner made certain that Leo had a can of pork and beans.
Leo never said thank you, but he growled as he ate, which, I suppose, was his way of showing appreciation.
That was in Oakland, where most of my family still lives. The tradition ended when Leo died of overeating and I moved on to L. A.
We still have a family gathering, but, instead of sisters and aunts and uncles and nephews jamming the house, we are limited to my immediate family. There is a can of pork and beans in the middle of the table, however, to commemorate Leo’s peculiar brand of slobbery.
Thanksgiving is quieter now than it was when our children were growing up. I miss the chaos.
Forty people would gather at the house back then, about a dozen of them under the age of 12.
The women would cook, the men would drink and the children would crash through the house at Mach speed and try to knock themselves out against the walls.
The only quiet one was Leo, who, as it turned out, had nothing to say. The rest of us would sing. Bob played a uke, Eddie played spoons and I carried the melody, although sometimes I would make a ch , ch-ch sound as a drum riff.
Nothing would cause us to stop in the middle of a song, short of a large dog carrying off the baby.
Once we were into a tune called “Water,” which which we tried to sing in harmony like the Sons of the Pioneers.
During our effort, my youngest daughter Linda ran into the room screaming that her sister Cindy, who was in hot pursuit, was trying to choke her. Linda was 5, Cindy 10. We had just started singing.
All day we paced the barren waste without the taste of water . . .
“She had her hands around my neck!”
Linda had a flair for drama and illustrated by placing both hands at her throat and falling bug-eyed to the floor, her tongue hanging out.
Old Dan and I with throats burned dry and souls that cried for water, ch, ch-ch . . .
Attracting no attention there, Linda ran into the kitchen yelling bloody murder. My wife came out with traces of turkey dressing on her hands.
“Can’t you keep your daughter from cutting her sister’s throat?”
Keep a-movin’, man, don’t you listen to him, Dan, he’s a devil not a man and he spreads the burnin’ sands with water . . .
There is a part of the tune that calls for humming. When the other were humming, I said, “She wasn’t cutting her throat, she was only choking her.”
The night’s are cool and I’m a fool, each star’s a pool of water . . . .
“Whatever she was doing,” my wife said, her voice rising, “ought not to be done!”
Cool, clear water , ch, ch-ch . . .
“And for God’s sake, finish that song!
I turned to Cindy. “You choke her again, I’m going to make you sit next to Uncle Leo.”
A look of horror entered her eyes.
“He’s dis- gust -ing!” she said.
“Exactly.”
Order returned in time for me to join in the final verse, one word that faded out beautifully and melodically:
Waaaaaaaterrrrrr . . . .
We would have sung it again, but it was dinnertime and Gloria was whispering for a can of pork and beans.
It’s different now.
Cindy doesn’t choke Linda anymore, and Leo is gone away to Pork and Bean Heaven. I don’t know what his celestial diet is.
But the memory still lingers, and one of these days, when I have enough money, I’m going to fly everyone to L. A. for a family reunion.
It will be a traditional Thanksgiving dinner: turkey, yams, cranberry sauce and a can of pork and beans.
