Not My Momma’s Lima Beans and Ham

Each year right after Christmas, my family unceremoniously drenched the simple dish of large dried lima beans and ham hock cooked in water, at the table with the only garnish that made it palatable: ketchup. Lima beans and ham prove my die-hard mantra: “If you don’t like a food, you have not had it prepared properly.”

With no other culinary legacy to my name, I wanted to pass on the history and importance of this humble dish that has fed the masses during rough times. But I needed to find a way to do so that made me proud – honoring the ingredients while emphasizing the natural flavor the ham provides. 

My mother made lima beans and ham every year with our leftover ham hock. Of all the dishes my mother ate growing up, she enjoyed only this one and continued cooking it for her family. The historian of my family, Aunt Lynda, believes my grandmother received this recipe from the Relief Society at the LDS Church in Queens, NY. Lima beans and ham fed her through the Great Depression and when she had a family fed her nine hungry mouths.

Lima beans date back to 6000-5000 BC, making them one of the oldest beans to come from the Americas. They have saved many communities struggling with access to food during the Great Depression, and troops during wartime. During the Vietnam War, the US Government included ham and lima beans in their C-rations, where my father-in-law, Jim Pulley, 2nd Battalion 26th Marines, remembers adoring them. His fellow Marines, “Said they were shit!” They gave him all their cans, which he hoarded, and thought he was raised “real poor” because of his love for them. 

In 1966 Brig. Gen. Walter McIlhenny, great-grandson of the creator of the Tabasco red pepper sauce, wrote a cookbook, “The Charlie Ration Cookbook”. In each ration box, a soldier received a bottle of Tabasco wrapped in a copy of the cookbook. Next to “Foxhole dinner for two”, and “Battlefield fufu”, is a recipe similar to my family’s lima beans and ham: Soup du Jour. 

I did not have the same affection for lima beans and ham as my mother. I felt exactly the opposite and dreaded that dish. My nine-year-old self decided to take a stand one dark, New Year’s Eve, as my mother put the steaming pot of beans and ham on the table with the customary ketchup bottle. I took my first bite and pushed my bowl away, no way was I eating that! My mother tried reasoning with me and poured some ketchup over my beans, even worse. She resorted to the only logical thing a parent can do in that situation circa 1982, “You may not leave the table until you clean your plate.” I sat at that table for hours, occasionally pushing my beans around my bowl, turning ice-cold, and congealing with streaks of red ketchup veins. I don’t remember how long I sat, or how I got away from the table, but I did not finish my dinner that night and managed to evade that meal thereafter.

That supper has haunted me over the years. Not because of the hours sitting in my stubborn hell, or the thought of eating lima beans and ham filling me with dread. Lima beans and ham represent a connection to my family, my heritage that I abandoned, my children missing this affinity. I knew what I needed to do, recreate this dish and elevate it to a celebratory meal to share with the people I love, remembering our linkage to our past. 

Starting with a brodo, I added onion, garlic, celery, leftover ham hock, and smoked pork shoulder, and braised for hours. Once strained, I reserved the ham hocks and added the dried lima beans to the broth with more onion, garlic, peppercorns, fresh thyme, and bay leaves. This slowly simmered until the beans were silky and tender, but not mushy or falling apart. While the beans were cooking, I picked off all the tender, salty, fatty, ham from the hocks, and added it to the beans. Towards the end of cooking, I added some rutabaga, and savoy cabbage.

On a rainy New Year’s Eve, candles burning, football on mute, smells of comforting food that only comes from food cooked with love. I served this to my family in large bowls, with crusty toasted bread rubbed with garlic, a generous dollop of creme fraiche, and a drizzle of fragrant, fruity extra-virgin olive oil. I sat there surrounded by my children and husband, sharing this history with them, and enjoying every luscious, pleasing bite. My grandmother served this to sustain a family, my mother served this to connect with memories, I served this to feed my soul.