Atascadero Writers Group
January 2016
Proud Cat
art and poem by George Asdel
Proud Cat
Crouching down
Ready for the kill
the neighbor’s
tabby cat
watches her prey
hiding in the brown
grass
Tail twitching
Eyes narrowed
She pounces!
She's too fast
Her victim has no
chance of escape
She raises up
Gazes around
for other cats
Proudly she walks
up the driveway
Drops a six-
foam pipe insulation
with black tape trailing
on the porch of her
home
The foam gives a last
gasp and rolls over
A woman opens the
screen door
picks up the dead insulation
and tosses it back
into the brown grass
The Magical Bean Pot
by Ruth Cowne
My daughters believe I have a magical bean pot. This cast Iron pot makes delicious pinto
beans that delight the taste buds of family and dinner guests. The aroma entices while the
brown, speckled pintos cook until they become a thick soup called frijoles de la olla, beans in
the pot.
When Mom died, the bean pot became mine, making me the best frijoles maker ever!
At least according to my daughters. This high praise has nothing to do with how I prepare and
cook the beans. It is attributed to the magical bean pot. I previously made beans often and they
were good; but the children's abuelita, always made them better. Now that the magical bean
pot belongs to me, I join the elite group of abuelas who know how to cook pinto beans.
I discovered that it was Mom who was magical, not the pot. To encourage my daughters
to cook frijoles de la olla, I tell them that the secret to good beans is in the cooking technique,
easily done by anyone.
"It's not the bean pot!" I emphatically tell them.
All they need to do is to carefully sort the beans to make sure there are no rocks. Rinse
them in a colander, add water to a pot and soak the beans overnight in cold water. Early the
next day, rinse the beans, add fresh water and cook over the stove at a very slow simmer.
About half an hour before the beans are done, add a tablespoon of salt. You end up with
delicious frijoles de la olla.
This is exactly the same recipe Mom used to prepare beans almost every day of her sixty
years of marriage. I frequently cook these beans, using the same recipe, but in the crock pot
when my daughters are not around.
They look at me and say, "These are not abuela's beans."
"Oh no, mom, you didn't fool us. These beans are not as good because you didn't use
abuela's bean pot."
When I have time to hide the evidence, they give me a suspicious look, but grudgingly admit
that the frijoles are delicious.
My daughters argue over who will inherit the magical bean pot when I pass on to that
mythical bean pot in the sky, inhabited by abuelas that gnash their teeth every time they
hear about a bean pot with magical powers.
"Mal agradecidas," they say, "Ungrateful ones. Doesn't it matter that we picked rocks
and dirt out of the beans? What about the time spent over the stove watching those beans
cook slowly so they wouldn't burn? Doesn't it count that we added just the right amount of
salt? They want to attribute our effort to a magical bean pot?"
I know their thoughts because my mom speaks to me every time I make a pot of beans.
She whispers to me that it's the love and care given to the preparation that makes them
delicious. Family and friends to share the meal makes them appetizing. I suppose my
daughters will need to discover this truth on their own. Meanwhile, I will continue to use
crock pot as often has possible and hide the evidence. Maybe I can convince my
daughters that it's my crock pot that has magical powers!