December 4, 2024
This year marked my first Thanksgiving in Tulsa, Oklahoma. For the past six years, Tonya and I have visited her family here, but we’d always managed to dodge the actual holidays. To be honest, Thanksgiving has never been our favorite. The fanfare feels overdone, and the food? Let’s just say it’s not always worth the hype. Our usual Thanksgiving involves my kids (when they’re around) and a patchwork crew of friends who share our “meh” attitude toward tradition. Instead of turkey, we whip up tacos, hot wings featuring my famous Butternut Habanero hot sauce, and an assortment of weird desserts, all washed down with copious amounts of bourbon and laughter.
But this year, things were different. We officially live in Tulsa now, and with that came the inaugural Thanksgiving with Tonya’s entire family. Thirty-six people, to be exact. When we asked what we should bring, the answer was simply “brown beans.” That was it. No clarification, no recipe, just… beans.
We took a creative approach and made a hearty ham-and-bean dish from scratch. It was delicious, but due to my tardiness (totally my fault), it ended up relegated to the back corner of the food table. Most of the family didn’t even see it, let alone eat it. As I stood there, watching our poor beans get ignored, a strange wave of discomfort washed over me. It was déjà vu mixed with mild PTSD. And then it hit me—the memory of an event over 35 years ago that shaped me in ways I didn’t realize until now.
Let me take you back to 1989. I was trying to make it as an illustrator, working odd jobs and submitting drawings wherever I could. Through a high school friend, I landed small gigs with a company that produced T-shirts and print work. They rarely used my original pieces but kept me around with small commissions and inking jobs.
One spring, the office decided to throw a potluck. I barely knew anyone there, but my friend insisted I go—it would be good for my career, they said. So, I ventured to the breakroom and signed up for an item that seemed simple: baked beans. I figured it was easy and inexpensive.
On the day of the potluck, I grabbed two giant cans of baked beans from the store and brought them to the party. Feeling accomplished, I quietly placed them on the food table and retreated to the corner, trying to blend in with the three people I sort of knew.
That’s when I heard it.
“Who is the dumbass who brought unopened beans?!”
My stomach dropped. I glanced around, hoping someone else had made the same rookie mistake. Nope. This was all me. I raised my hand halfway, just enough to get noticed.
“What were you thinking?” someone asked, incredulous. And honestly? I wasn’t. My 19-year-old brain hadn’t considered the logistics of opening or heating up two industrial-sized cans of beans.
The office rallied, though. Someone produced a tiny, rusty, military-style can opener from a keychain, and I set to work. It was messy and time-consuming, but I managed to open both cans. Then came the next question: “How are you going to serve them?”
Panic set in. I grabbed a plastic spoon from the table, shoved it into one of the cans, and declared the job done. The beans, sitting cold and naked in their tin prisons, were ignored by nearly everyone.
Determined to salvage the situation, I grabbed a used serving spoon from another empty dish, wiped it off as best I could, and swapped out the plastic spoon. Still, my beans remained untouched. Desperate, I turned into a one-man bean hype machine, loudly proclaiming how delicious they were while dramatically eating small bites.
In the end, about five people tried the beans. The rest were left untouched, and as I drove home, one of the cans tipped over in my car, spilling sticky sauce all over the floorboard.
That day, I learned about humility, preparation, and the importance of following through. It’s a story I’ve shared over the years, including during my first pitch for a sitcom in Hollywood. While the show didn’t get made, the lesson stuck with me.
Fast forward to this year’s Thanksgiving. The ham-and-bean dish Tonya and I made was fantastic. Those who tried it raved about it, and the leftovers we brought home were even better. But I couldn’t help but think of the Great Bean Disaster of 1989 as I watched our dish sit untouched for the first part of the meal.
I imagine many of you have your own “bean moments”—those small but formative failures that leave an impression. And I hope, like me, they’ve taught you a thing or two about perseverance and self-awareness.
Happy Thanksgiving, from my family (and beans) to yours.
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