One afternoon, I had a hankering, a primal-like craving, for a supper of pinto beans and cornbread with a tall glass of cold, rich buttermilk thrown in for good measure and extra filling. This is an heirloom of food handed down from my Appalachian folks who, when hard times threatened to starve them, put a pot of beans on the stove, then later said a blessing over that which would fill their stomachs with fiber and protein. In my growing up days, Mama cooked a pot of pintos at least once a week and always, without fail, stretched it into two nights’ worth of supper.