Baked Beans

An ode to exhausted parents across the generations

I never understood it.

Every single time.

They sat on the stove in the pan cold for hours before tea time waiting for Dad to get home. The wooden spoon poised, ready for its master.

Given the choice I would beg for peas instead. I hated those too for their grainy texture but at least they weren’t slipping around in a slimy sauce. Hardly sweet enough to be called tomato, they were never the Real Deal. Diluted and tasteless - made worse by a bitter charring from scrapings of caramelised remains stirred up from the bottom of the pan.

I was only young then, but I had cooked them myself. I was quite self sufficient in that respect but they are also incredibly easy to cook. Four minutes on the hob, if that. You barely need to stir. It utterly baffled me that every time it was the same.

Now I have my own kids.

Now I know.

It’s the whining and the whinging, the fighting, and the “oh I better put something on the shopping,” - getting the phone from upstairs and being distracted by the toilet roll needing changing and the pants thrown on the bedroom floor…

Like a timer going off my nose detects a familiar aroma in the air. I run down the stairs, into the kitchen to find them bubbling in the pan.

Damn it.

Burnt.

Every. Single. Time.

Come join me in the comments, I would love to hear your stories. Until next time,

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