Black-eyed Peas

"Just a spoonful," I remember my mother saying, "and you'll have good luck this year." It was a struggle for me as I watched the fleshy, pinkish beans look back up at me from the spoon. I found their flavor dull and pasty. I dreaded the cloying aftertaste of bacon fat.

But because my mother insisted on it so sincerely, in a way that suggested there really was no choice, I did it. One year I asked my father why it was so important to eat the things each January 1st. "Southern tradition," he shrugged. I didn't get it. His answer did nothing to help me understand the strange ritual.

It did, however, give me a stock answer of my own, on the rare occasion that a friend or a northeast relative would stop by our suburban New York home on New Year's Day. "Southern Tradition," I'd say, approximating my shrug to the one my father had given me. And our guest would of course have to take a spoonful of black-eyed peas of their own.

Now, years later, I find myself living in the South, one state to the west of where my mother was born and raised. I've yet to make my pilgrimmage to Little Rock, Arkansas; it has been many years since I was there last -- I'd guess it was probably in the early 1970's. My mother was an only child, and if there's anyone with a direct line to her branch of the Runyan family tree, I haven't been able to find them. Still, though, I'm determined to make that trip one of these days.

Here in Texas, the black-eyed pea tradition is very much alive, and I do my best each year to make sure my family members get at least a bite of them. My kids look at me with the same perplexed expression as I'm sure I gave my mother. My wife, born and bred in the Bronx, has embraced the custom, because she knows that it is a way for me to embrace a disappearing piece of my heritage and the heritage of our children. I go to my local greasy spoon, Cafe 290, and order a side of black-eyed peas, "if you've got any," I smile. The friendly waitress smiles back and says "on New Year's Eve, you better believe we do." She then turns to the ordering window and calls for "Texas Caviar," before pouring me a cup of coffee and challenging me with a brain teaser.

I'm happy to be living in a place where friendly waitresses challenge you with brain teasers while you wait for your black-eyed peas. I'm even happier to be living so close to where my mother was born and grew up. It makes her more present for me at times, which is a comfort.

And by the way, I don't just take a spoonful anymore. Now I eat every last bean in the bowl, and the flavor, though probably not much different than it was on all those January Firsts of my childhood, is a kind of delicious I can't even begin to describe.