Exploding Beans
W. Randy Rice

I'm not sure where or who the idea came from first. But, I do remember it was on the CIT overnight at the upper lake. I think it was me, and Danny, and Jack . . . at least. But, again, I don't recall exactly. Dinner was done, and dark was coming on. The canoes had all come in. We'd taken the walk down to the lower lake. No one else was camping down that way, or we'd have gone down and harassed them some. All in all, it was turning into and fairly boring evening. And that just wouldn't do.

We were standing around the fire, carefully admonishing the campers not to play in it. This sage piece of advise coming from the crew that had just finished the double-edge axe throwing contest! Jerry-whathisface, we called Frog or something like that - he was hungry. All we had was applesauce. In cans. Nice, tight, yellow metal cans. Applesauce was good warm, wasn't it? And, we had a fire, didn't we? What could be better on a 90 degree July evening in the wilds of southern West Virginia that a good, old-fashioned can of warm applesauce?

An exploding can of hot applesauce.

Actually, I think it started because we couldn't find the can opener. At first, this seemed just kind of a nuisance for which we would likely blame the funniest looking kid we'd brought with us. But, soon it turned into a, moment. It was odd. The idea seemed to hit all of us at the same time. We were all looking in different directions for the can opener, when we all seemed to simultaneously stop. And look at each other. And grin.

Danny ordered the sleeping bags a safe distance from the fire (about 300 yards -- we had to be careful.) Jack stoked the fire, and I prepared the cans. Well, OK, so that meant basically standing there while everyone else did the work. And, as Danny secured the perimeter, and Jack stoked the fire, I contemplated the premium placement of the cans of applesauce. Acutely aware that this might be my final act with all ten fingers attached, I carefully extended the unopened can of applesauce and placed it in the middle of the fire. And then I ran. I ran like hell, and dove behind the tree we'd chewed up with the double-edged axe. I was certain I was going to get an ass-full of applesauce shrapnel. At the time, that seemed like a cool, if not slightly painful proposition.

It hadn't dawned on me, the significance of what we'd just done. But, as I looked around, it became clear. The campers were silent. Eyes wide. Half-ducking. This was insane and they knew it! This was the stuff that got people's heads blown off. We'd all heard about it in school. It was one of life's cardinal rules: You absolutely, positively, never, ever, under ANY circumstances put an unopened can of anything in the fire. This was brilliant!

We waited. And nothing happened. And then we waited some more. And nothing happened. And then we waited, and waited, and waited, and finally, at least 10 whole minutes into this process, we sent Danny in. With a stick. He needed to check on it. See what was happening.

Now, I liked Danny. But, in fairness, he did run track. And, I'd put the can on the fire in the first place, and Jack . . . well, he had his hair and all. So, it just made sense to send Danny. And, he went without much of an argument. Crawling up to the fire . . . slowly, carefully approaching from the side where the rocks were stacked highest around it. A reverent silence fell over the group. We saw Danny, pop his head up quickly, and then back down again, very low to the ground. Looking. And then up again, longer this time. And then, oh holy jeezus he stood up! And looked straight down into the fire.

"It's a dud."

It wasn't possible. But closer examination revealed, in fact, the seam along the side had not quite burst open, and an ugly bubbly puddle of yellow applesauce was quickly turning brown and black in the middle of the fire. So, we kind of regained our senses, rethought the foolishness of our actions, . . . and got three more cans of freak'n applesauce!

Smack dab in the middle of the fire, and we retreated all the way to the tree line. Three minutes later, poomph, pop . . . and POW! Yeah, pow in all caps! It was sweet. And the heavens rained down a sheet of sticky warm goo. It was truly a beautiful moment.

The kids came out of the woods, dancing and whooping in circles. Mission accomplished. That was totally cool. Jerry spoke up, "yeah man, just imagine if we'd put that can of beans in there!" And the kids continued to dance, and slip in the warm sauce, and pat each other on the back and remark on how generally awesome the experience had been, and they'd never seen anything like it, and they couldn't wait to tell their parents, and . . . Danny went for the beans.

Now, this is a very, VERY large can of beans. A number 10 can to be exact. A number 10 can of Nifda's finest homestyle baked beans complete with a patty of pork lard in the middle. Good stuff. And Jack stoked the fire, and I took the kids back to the tree line. We counted them this time.

We piled the coals up in the middle of the fire and put that number 10 can of Nifda Homestyle Baked Beans smack dab in the middle of the inferno, and raked all the coals we could on top. And then we walked, like the Gods we were soon to become, casually, coolly, back to where the wimps were simpering behind the trees.

Fifteen minutes passed. Nothing. Now thirty. Nothing. Forty-five. It was time to send Danny in again. He was trained in this sort of thing. And he crept, low again, up to the edge of the fire. Popped his head up, and . . . ran in place for about five seconds on the wet grass until his feet took grip, and sprinted back to us. He couldn't talk at first . . . "bask, bask, bask . . . etball. Big as, . . . huge. Stand back . . . way . . . back."

And we did. Way back. And we waited. Five minutes. Now ten. This couldn't fail. We only had number 10 can of Nifda Homestyle Baked Beans! Danny . . . "be very careful." And he went, slowly, looking as far ahead as he could. There were no flames now. Only glowing coals. And, the woods seemed oddly cold for the moment. Danny reached the edge of the fire, with this stick. He started to raise it . . .

SssssssssssssssssssssssSSSSSSSPOW-BOOM!

Fire and flames and sparks shot out twenty feet in every direction from the fire. Embers danced like skipping stones across the ground. A log . . . an honest-to-god LOG shot-rolled twenty feet from the fire. YEEEEEEEAEAAAAAAAHHHhhhhhhhhhh. Aw, man, this was way too cool. I'd never seen anything like this. Did you see that thing? People were pointing, yammering about how far or high this shot or the other thing went flying, and . . . Danny. Oh geez, Danny. Danny??? He was dead. I was sure. I didn't see him come out of it. He couldn't have survived. He was nowhere to be found. We'd vaporized him. We'd never be counselors now. Oh, . . . oh, this was really bad.

"Hey, you guys, come look at this" a ghostly voice called from the edge of the water. Danny! We turned to look, and there he was . . . smoking, I swear, around the edges, at the edge of the water, pointing down at the spent mortar shell that had previously been the number 10 can of Nifda Homestyle Baked Beans. He was alive. The can, wasn't.

It had shot thirty yards from where the fire was originally. Still steaming, black, and greasy. The insides, still shiny. And, I can't tell you where the beans went. Five pounds of beans, and we couldn't find a single one. Anywhere. Perfect.

And that's how it all started. Now, every time we get together, someone brings the beans. And, here's a pic to prove it!