Beanjar, Glorious Beanjar

Waking up on a January morning to the smell of beanjar permeating every inch of the household is a privilege unique to us in Guernsey. It is our national dish – or jar, rather.

That smell certainly took the edge off of my 4.30am start this morning, when I had the inspired idea to share with you the recipe causing this irresistible aroma.

Family recipes reach back centuries, and are jealously guarded.

In olden times, families would drop off their jars of beany goodness – moussaettes au four, in Guernésiais – to the bakers, who would kindly put them in their ovens to sit and simmer overnight in the heat of the day’s baked bread.

Low and slow does the trick.

Big butter beans start to fall apart in the thick and wholesome stock, you get a little bit of sweetness from the carrots, and a delicate herbiness from the bay leaves.

Makes my mouth water just writing it.

The prospect of beanjar is often what motivates me through wintry swims, and a generous bowl will be my reward after a choppy one today.

Beanjar is a good incentive to get friends to swim – and sometimes mulled wine, too, if you can be persuaded.

I hand out portions in old plastic containers. I even gave two portions as presents this Christmas.

If you want some of the good stuff, you can either ask me, or follow my recipe below.

Traditional beanjar is simple.

You put your beans to soak in water overnight. The next day, you fry veg, adding pigs trotter or ham hock, beans and stock. Bish-bash-bosh, Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, Dave’s your best mate’s dog – in the oven until the next morning. Low and slow, baby, low and slow.

I don’t eat meat and don’t include it here, because I’ve made a beanjar recipe that doesn’t require portions of pig limb to be delicious, and I maintain that my recipe is actually more delicious without it. Taste, before you disagree.

I get my beans, lentils and bouillon from the Guernsey Weigh. Cheap, cheerful and packaging-free.

I have taken some creative license with beanjar. Sometimes it worked, other times not.

This is the product of times it worked. You needn’t use the lentils or potato stock, but I would highly recommend it. They give that stodgy, gelatine thickness that would traditionally be provided to an inferior degree by the bone of the hock or trotter.

I eyeball everything, but have included rough measurements here.

You need a big pot, a large saucepan and an oven.

Let’s do it.

There you have it, glorious beany goodness, traditionally served with bread and Guernsey butter.

Always worth the wait, and always worth the swim.

Bouan appétit!