Delta Peas & Rice

I was walking through a book store with my mother the first time I learned of Black Eyed Peas, the band. I noticed a display of CDs with the great Sergio Mendes, who was very familiar to me as a fan of Brazilian music. Black Eyed Peas and Fergie were just the people playing along, as far as I was concerned. I did start listening to their music in its own right, and as a featured act, they made me one of the more willing parents attending a day-long concert with my kid a few years later.

I realized just today that it must have been around the same time I learned about the band that I quit encountering the eponymous legume. As I was growing up -- mostly in rural northern Virginia (that used to be a thing) -- we had black-eyed peas frequently. In a sense, my mother introduced me to both kinds.

I do not know whether they are common in some corners of New England, but since coming here, I do not think I have encountered them much at all, nor have I sought them out.

This is all background to why the "Delta Beans and Rice" recipe caught my eye as I was looking through Screen Doors and Sweet Tea this morning, in search of something new and not too heavy for this afternoon's linner. (Since brunch was to be waffles and bacon.)

Martha Hall Foose introduces the recipe with a brief essay, subtitled "Where I Cook," that is rich in cultural geography; I cannot resist sharing it in its entirety:

I once did a presentation at a conference of the International Association of Culinary Professionals, entitled "The Rhythm of the Kitchen." Leonard "Doc" Gibbs of Emeril Live Band fame provided informative foot-tapping commentary on playing music to cooking. For my part, I tried to stump the audience by making my version of perhaps the most ubiquitous dish in the world, rice and beans, and seeing if people could place its origins just by tasting it. And sure enough, guesses ranged from the Caribbean and Africa to the Carolinas and Portugal. Then the audience got to sample the dish while riffs of classic blues music filled the air. That did it: they all knew and understood where the dish was from, and people were calling it Delta peas and rice all over the place. The dish tastes a little like all the places guessed first and it tastes a lot like the one named last. 

Reading this, I knew I had found our meal. Now to find black-eyed peas. She calls for frozen, which I have never seen. For me, this has always been one of those foods grown in a can. After my morning row, I scoured the freezers at the local grocery to no avail. I eventually found a few cans of the store brand, from which I learned the Spanish name: frijoles caritas (little-face beans).

To prepare the dish, I queued up this collection:

Then I began to follow the simple directions for the dish itself, and organic, oven-baked chicken to go with it.  Enough preamble; here is what I did:

I opened, rinsed, and drained two small cans of black-eyed peas, skipping the cooking instructions provided by the author (since these were already cooked), and set them aside. I also cooked 3 cups basmati rice and set aside.
I then heated 2T olive oil (she calls for soybean oil) and cooked a chopped onion until tender. Then I added 2 cloves minced garlic and cooked just a minute more.
Then I added 2C diced, peeled tomatoes, 1t thyme leaves (I actually put in a lot more than this), 1T apple cider vinegar, 1t sugar, and 1/4t red pepper flakes (again, I did quite a bit more). I simmered this mixture for 15 minutes, then added the peas for a further 15 minutes. At the end, I added the rice to the mixture, heated through, and added 1/4C fresh parsley.

The result: tea-licious! I had included a little bit of thyme and parsley among the seasonings for the chicken, for a perfect pairing. And we were very fortunate that Pam had selected just the right tablecloth for this meal.

Lagniappe

Since this post has turned into a memoir of my life with black-eyed peas, I should add one more account for completeness. When we lived in Tucson, we noticed cans of black-eyed peas with jalapeños in our local grocery.

Like this, but without the bacon

More accurately, we noticed cans of black-eyed peas with jalapeños on the label. Being fans of augmented flavor -- and just wanting the company to know there was a problem -- I sent a letter (this was before food companies were online) explaining what had happened. I included all the details I could think of.

A couple off weeks later, I received a letter from Bush's Best, in box containing various cans of beans and an excellent can opener. The letter included an apology for the mishap and a request for more information. From this I learned that even when there is no obvious date on a food package, there is a date encoded on the label that allows the manufacturer to track all kinds of quality issues.

We had long since discarded the can, but I went back to the store and bought another can. Again it has jalapeños on the label but not in the can. I sent the code, and maybe the whole label, to the company. Another week passed, and I received another letter in a gift package as thanks.

From this I learned the importance of writing effective, polite letters when there is a problem -- both Bush's Best and I had done so. I also learned a little bit about food packaging, which would become a major part of my life just a few years later when I worked for the Wornick Company.

As for those beans, I always buy Bush's Best if it is an option (I checked yesterday -- only baked beans). And we used those well-made, manual can openers for over 20 years. The free ones were better than any we have been able to buy since, and definitely better than any electric can opener.