My older daughter has a strong aversion to dried beans.

It’s the weirdest thing because beans are a staple in this family. I keep the pantry stocked with black, red, navy, and pinto beans, as well as green and red lentils—none of which she likes (but eats nonetheless, since it’s what’s for supper).

I’m hoping she out grows her dislike someday, but I’m not too optimistic. Even after three years of living in Bean Central (otherwise known as Central America), my husband still isn’t that fond of the magical fruit. My daughter gets her bean-hate from him.

This is where refried beans comes into the picture. She much prefers beans when they’re not in their beany form (it must be a texture thing, not a tastebud thing). I made a big pot of refried beans the other night for supper, and she was gratifyingly grateful.

The rest of the family liked them, too. We topped the puddle of beans with sour cream and cheese and salsa and then scooped the whole mess into our mouths via soft flour tortillas.

There are many ways to make refried beans, and I’ve experimented with a variety recipes. However, it’s my own creation that I keep coming back to. Probably because it involves bacon grease.

Bacon grease is a precious commodity in my kitchen. I love to use it in place of butter when frying eggs or sauteing the veggies for a potato soup.

Please tell me you reserve your bacon grease, yes? Yes? Oh, good! We of the bacon grease saving mentality are kindred spirits.

Refried Beans

1 pound pinto beans, cooked until very soft
1/4 cup bacon grease
1 onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
lots of salt

Saute the onion in the bacon grease until tender. Add the garlic and saute for a couple more minutes. Add the beans and some of their broth (reserve the remaining juice in case you need to thin the beans further) and heat through. Using an immersion or stand blender, blend until smooth. Season with salt, and don’t be skimpy about it, either.

Note: these freeze well.

This same time, years previous: thrift store shopping,  sour cherry crostatas, how to freeze spinach, strawberry margarita cake, and Swiss chard rolls

how to make a piñata, hickville-style: 
1. steal a plastic milk jug from the recycle bin
2. fill it with water
3. tie it to one end of a rope, the other end of which is fastened to a tree branch
4. with a stick, beat the living daylights out of it
5. Repeat with a new milk jug (because the first one is in pieces all over the yard)

if you give a girl a screwdriver… she’ll
a. become calm and focused
b. make a mess
c. get her papa to help her
d. all of the above

proof that he does in fact stop moving

They were talking about tea parties and painted fingernails and puppy dogs, right?
Wrong! They were deep in a conversation about…allergies!

a portrait of her parents 
by my younger daughter

(My favorite part, besides the fact that we’re kissing, not fighting, is the hearts in the eyeballs.)

This same time, years previous: cold-brewed iced tea and coffee, In honor of Father’s Day: the giant green slug, cabbage apple slaw with buttered pecans

On Saturday, my daughter and I drove into town to do a bunch of errands. First up, we stopped at the thrift store. I like to check in there whenever I can, just to see what’s in stock. This time, we found some water shoes for my daughter and a couple dress-up dresses. And then my daughter appeared from behind the shoe rack wearing an old lady wig. I hooted. Other customers chuckled. We bought the wig.

She’d put the wig on whenever we got into the car, but would take it off before going into any store. Every time I looked over at the passengers seat, there she was in her sunglasses and granny hair. It about did me in.

It was when we were pulling in the gas station, our next-to-last stop, that I got an idea. “Hey, you wear the wig and glasses into the grocery store and I’ll give you a quarter for the gum machine.”

“Into the store? But everyone would look at me!” She looked at me incredulously.

“From the car to the car,” I said. “The whole time we’re in the store. It’ll be funny.”

“Fifty cents,” she countered.

“Okay, fifty cents,” I said.

“Seventy-five,” she shot back.

“No.”

She waffled for a bit—but people will look at me! I’ll feel funny!—and then she grew steely. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

As we parked the car I said, “Just forget you’re wearing a wig and glasses and focus on the shopping. We don’t have a very long list.” I wasn’t sure who the pep talk was for—me or her.

We didn’t get very far into the store before a woman from our church passed us. She stopped and turned around. “Is that…one of your children?”

“It’s a dare,” I mouthed.

“I’m not going to say anything else,” she laughed, and walked on.

We ran into another friend in the dairy aisle. In the middle of preliminary greetings, she suddenly looked over and spied my girl.

“Oh my word!” she shrieked. That is perfect! I love it! Can I have it? I’m going to a 40th birthday party today and I need that!”

She made plans to pick it up later that day (though she never did then), and then, as we headed off in different directions, she leaned over to my daughter and said, “You age so well!”

We made it through the store without further incident. No one else made a peep. Maybe prematurely gray ten-year-old girls are more common than I realized?

In the check out line, my girl picked out two airheads for her reward. She gave me a taste of each.

This same time, years previous: Kate’s enchiladas, my boy children, old-fashioned vanilla ice cream, making art