Mama’s Butter Beans with Ham Hock

Last day of January. The shortest month is coming — February, which in Memphis is the cruelest month (apologies to Mr. T.S. Eliot, who said April, but Mr. Eliot did not carry mail in Memphis). February is cold, gray, and long in the way that short things can feel long when they're joyless. But February also contains Groundhog Day, Valentine's Day, and the Super Bowl, which is enough entertainment to get a man through four weeks of gloom if he manages his expectations carefully.

This week I was thinking about Walter Jr. He called Monday night — not about anything specific, just to talk, which is unusual for Walter Jr., who calls about logistics: pickups, dropoffs, schedules, the operational details of a family that requires coordination. When he calls just to talk, it means something is on his mind, and I have learned to let him circle it the way smoke circles a shoulder — slowly, in spirals, arriving at the center when it's ready.

It took forty minutes. The thing on his mind was his job. FedEx is a good job — steady, benefits, the kind of work that a man can be proud of without being passionate about. But Walter Jr. is thirty-one and starting to feel the difference between a good job and a right job, the difference between making a living and making a life. He doesn't hate FedEx. He just doesn't love it. And at thirty-one, with three kids and a mortgage and a wife who's working toward assistant principal, the question of what you love takes a back seat to the question of what you can afford, and the back seat is where dreams go when life fills up the front.

I listened. That's what fathers do — or should do, when their sons are grown and don't need advice as much as they need an ear. I listened to Walter Jr. talk about wanting more, about feeling stuck, about wondering if this is it, and I didn't say what I was thinking, which is: Son, I carried mail for thirty-six years. It was never my dream. It was my job. My dream was the smoker and the family and the church and the BBQ. The job paid for the dream. That's the deal. Not everyone gets to love their work. Some of us love what our work lets us do.

But I didn't say that, because Walter Jr. is thirty-one and he needs to discover these things on his own timetable, the way a shoulder discovers its tenderness on its own timetable, and my job is to keep the fire going and stay out of the way. So I said, "Junior, whatever you decide, your mama and I are behind you." And he said, "Thanks, Dad." And that was enough.

Saturday I made something comforting: a pot of butter beans. Mama's butter beans, the dish of my childhood, the taste of the shotgun house. Large lima beans, soaked overnight, simmered with a smoked ham hock, onion, garlic, and just enough water to cover. You cook them low and slow — three hours, maybe four — stirring occasionally, adding water as needed, until the beans are creamy and the broth is thick and the ham hock has given its flavor to every molecule of liquid in the pot.

Butter beans are the humblest dish I make. No one posts butter beans on the internet. No one starts a food truck selling butter beans. They're the food of people who didn't have much and made it into something good, and they taste like poverty turned into pride, which is the taste of my childhood and my mother's kitchen and the love of a woman who never had enough but always made enough feel like plenty.

I ate them over rice with cornbread and a splash of hot sauce, sitting at the kitchen table, and I was ten years old again, in the shotgun house, with Mama at the stove and four siblings at the table and Daddy in his chair and the whole family gathered around a pot of beans that cost almost nothing and was worth everything.

That kind of homesickness doesn’t call for something fancy — it calls for the real thing. When I got that craving, I knew there was only one answer: drag out the big pot, find a ham hock, and let the stove do what Mama’s stove always did. Here’s how I make them.

Prep Time: 10 min (plus overnight soak) | Cook Time: 3—4 hours | Total Time: 3 hrs 10 min active | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1 lb dried large lima beans (butter beans), soaked overnight in cold water
1 smoked ham hock (about 1 to 1 1/2 lbs)
1 medium yellow onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
6—8 cups water, plus more as needed
1 teaspoon black pepper
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (optional)
Salt to taste (add near the end—ham hock brings its own salt)
Hot sauce and cooked white rice, for serving
Cornbread, for serving

Instructions

Soak the beans. Place dried butter beans in a large bowl and cover with cold water by at least 3 inches. Soak overnight (8—12 hours). Drain and rinse before cooking.
Build the pot. Add the drained beans, ham hock, diced onion, garlic, black pepper, and red pepper flakes (if using) to a large heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven. Pour in enough water to cover everything by about 2 inches—roughly 6 to 8 cups.
Bring to a simmer. Set heat to medium-high and bring to a gentle boil. Skim any foam that rises to the surface in the first 10—15 minutes, then reduce heat to low.
Cook low and slow. Simmer uncovered on low heat for 3 to 4 hours, stirring occasionally and adding water 1/2 cup at a time whenever the liquid drops below the level of the beans. The goal is a thick, creamy broth—not watery, not dry.
Pull the ham hock. When beans are fully tender and the broth has turned silky, remove the ham hock. Let it cool slightly, then pull the meat from the bone, shred it, and stir the meat back into the pot. Discard the bone and skin.
Season and finish. Taste for salt and adjust. The beans should be creamy throughout, with a rich, smoky broth. If the broth is too thin, mash a handful of beans against the side of the pot with a spoon and stir—that’s all the thickener you need.
Serve. Ladle over white rice with a square of cornbread on the side and a splash of hot sauce on top.

Nutrition (per serving)

Mama’s Butter Beans with Ham Hock — The Pot That Paid for Everything