Half-Runner Green Beans with Bacon

Father's Day. I don't make a fuss about Father's Day because Hensley men don't make a fuss about anything, but I'll admit it's nice to be appreciated, even if the appreciation comes in the form of Travis handing me a Home Depot gift card and saying "Here" like it's a business transaction. Amber sent a text with about forty heart emojis and a paragraph that made me need to sit down. Clay said "Happy Father's Day" at breakfast, which is the verbal equivalent of a ticker-tape parade from a teenager.

I thought about Daddy all day. Earl Hensley. The man who went into the mountain every morning and came out every evening and did that for thirty-four years until the mountain killed him anyway, just slower. Father's Day without your father is a strange thing — it's a day that celebrates what you are by reminding you of what you've lost. Earl would have been seventy this year. He didn't make it to seventy. He didn't make it to sixty-three. The mines took decades off his life, and the worst part is that he'd do it again. He'd do it all again because his children needed to eat, and that was the only calculus that mattered to Earl Hensley.

I drove to Evarts today. Just me — Connie stayed home. Three hours down, three hours back. I went to the cemetery first. Earl's grave is on a hillside overlooking the valley, next to his father's grave and his grandfather's grave. Three generations of Hensley men in the same dirt, all of them miners, all of them dead before they should have been. I pulled the weeds around the headstone and sat on the grass and told Earl about Clay getting his license. I told him about Amber studying nursing. I told him the soup beans last Monday were close to Betty's. I didn't tell him about my back because Earl didn't want to hear about complaints. Earl wanted to hear that his grandchildren were healthy and his wife was safe and the soup was hot. That's all he ever wanted.

Then I went to Betty's. She was on the porch shelling beans — June is green bean season in the mountains. Half-runner beans, which are an Appalachian variety that's somewhere between a pole bean and a bush bean. Betty grows them on wooden poles that Earl made twenty years ago and that are still standing because Earl built things to last, including apparently bean poles.

We sat on the porch and shelled beans together. If you've never shelled green beans on a porch in Harlan County on a June afternoon, I can't adequately explain it, but I'll try: the mountains are green, every shade of green that exists. The air smells like rain and wildflowers and warm dirt. The beans snap between your fingers — a clean sound, satisfying. You pull the string, break the bean into pieces, drop them in the bowl. Your hands move without thinking. Your mother sits beside you and doesn't say anything because she doesn't need to. The act of shelling beans together is a conversation. It says: I'm here. You're here. We're still here. That's enough.

Betty made the beans for dinner — half-runners cooked with bacon, an onion, and a little sugar. Not much sugar — a teaspoon, maybe. Just enough to round out the flavor. She cooked them for an hour, which is how mountain people cook green beans. Not blanched, not steamed, not ten minutes to crisp-tender. An hour. Soft, savory, the bacon flavor in every bite. City people would say they're overcooked. Mountain people would say city people don't know what they're missing. Mountain people are right.

I ate two bowls with cornbread and drove home in the dark, through the mountains, with the windows down and the June air coming through and the smell of green beans still on my hands. Happy Father's Day, Earl. The beans were good this year. The beans are always good.

I’ve been thinking about those beans ever since that drive home—the smell of them, the hour they took, the way they tasted like the mountains and like Betty and like every June that came before this one. Some recipes are just food. This one is something else. If you want to make them the right way—the mountain way—here’s how Betty does it.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 1 hr | Total Time: 1 hr 20 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 lbs fresh half-runner green beans (or pole beans), strings removed, snapped into 1 1/2-inch pieces
4 strips thick-cut bacon, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 medium yellow onion, roughly chopped
1 teaspoon granulated sugar
3/4 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
3 cups water

Instructions

Prep the beans. Pull the string from each bean by snapping off the stem end and drawing the string down the length of the pod. Snap beans into pieces roughly 1 1/2 inches long, dropping them into a large bowl as you go. Rinse well and drain.
Render the bacon. In a large heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven, cook the bacon pieces over medium heat until the fat renders and the edges begin to crisp, about 5 to 6 minutes. Do not drain — the drippings are the foundation of the dish.
Soften the onion. Add the chopped onion to the pot and cook in the bacon drippings, stirring occasionally, until translucent and just beginning to color, about 4 minutes.
Add the beans and water. Add the snapped beans to the pot along with the water, salt, pepper, and sugar. Stir to combine. The water should come about halfway up the beans — add a splash more if needed.
Slow-cook, covered. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, then reduce heat to medium-low, cover, and cook for 50 to 60 minutes, stirring once or twice, until beans are fully tender, silky, and have absorbed the smoky pot liquor. This is not a crisp-tender situation. The beans should be soft all the way through.
Taste and adjust. Check for salt. The bacon brings its own saltiness, so taste before adding more. Serve in bowls with plenty of pot liquor and a square of hot cornbread alongside.

Nutrition (per serving)

Half-Runner Green Beans with Bacon — The Recipe Betty Made on the Porch the Father’s Day I Needed It Most