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There are some dishes that become more than just food—they’re comfort, memory, and community all simmered together in a single pot. For me, baked beans hold that place. Growing up in New England, they were always in the house, a steady presence that meant home.

I have vivid memories of driving Route 295 toward Portland with my family, watching for the big sign on the old B&M Baked Beans factory. There was something reassuring about that landmark—it meant we were almost there, and it reminded me that this humble dish was important enough to have a whole factory dedicated to it. In New England, baked beans aren’t just a side dish. They’re heritage.

The Factory That Became a Landmark

Photo Credit: https://bmbeans.com

That factory I grew up seeing from the highway has its own story. In 1913, the Burnham & Morrill Company built their four-story brick cannery in Portland’s East Deering neighborhood, right on Casco Bay at what would eventually be designated as 1 Bean Pot Circle. The company had started decades earlier in 1867, when George Burnham opened a cannery on Franklin Street to package meat, fish, and vegetables. Charles Morrill joined him soon after, and together they built something that would last for generations.

By 1913, they needed more space and better access to shipping routes, so they constructed the building that became such a familiar sight. The factory didn’t start making baked beans right away—that came in 1927, after years of experimentation to perfect the recipe and process. But once they started, those beans became legendary.

What made B&M beans special was the method: traditional open-pot baking in huge iron cauldrons that weighed 200 pounds empty and 900 pounds when filled with beans. Workers would fill the pots on the top floor with navy beans, molasses, and spices, then bake them for hours in brick ovens. The cooked beans would be dumped down a chute to the canning line below. It was the old-fashioned way, the slow way, and it made all the difference in taste.

For over a century, that factory sent the sweet smell of molasses and spices across Casco Bay. Thousands of motorists saw the big red sign every day. At its peak, 300 people worked there. In 2021, production moved to the Midwest, and while the building still stands as a designated Portland landmark, the steam and the scent are gone. The beans are still being made, but they’re being made somewhere else now, and longtime customers say they can tell the difference.

Learning the Family Recipe

The recipe for our family’s baked beans goes back further than Uncle Wayne, though he’s the one who taught me how to make them. My sister remembers our grandfather Richardson on our mother’s side—he was a cook on a fishing vessel out of Canso, Nova Scotia. His specialty was baked beans. He’d make them for the crew on those long trips out to sea, feeding men who were working brutal hours in all weather. My sister says those beans were legendary on the boat, the kind of food that kept everyone going when the work was hard and the days were long.

He passed on before I was born, so I never got to meet him or taste his beans. But my sister passed the story on to me, the way family food stories get handed down. And Uncle Wayne, also from Nova Scotia, taught me the method when I was young—quite possibly grandfather Richardson’s own recipe, though I can’t be certain. What I do know is the way you layer the salt pork, the ratio of molasses to maple syrup, the patience required to let them cook low and slow for hours—all of this feels like it came down through that same line, handed from one Nova Scotian cook to another. Uncle Wayne doesn’t use maple syrup, but this recipe is tailored to the New England tradition.

Watching Uncle Wayne work, I understood that baked beans are as much about patience as they are about ingredients. The long, slow cooking time isn’t just technique—it’s part of the ritual. You can’t rush something that good, and you certainly couldn’t rush it on a fishing boat where those beans might be what kept the crew fed and satisfied through a long haul.

Uncle Wayne would layer the salt pork just so, add the molasses and maple syrup with the practiced hand of someone who’d made this dish a hundred times, and then slide the heavy pot into the oven. “Now we wait,” he’d say. And we would. Hours later, the house would smell like Saturday suppers and Sunday gatherings, like every potluck and church social I’d ever been to. But also, I think, like the galley of a fishing boat out of Canso, feeding men who needed something hearty and good.

Baked Beans in Crisis

During the ice storm of 1998, when we lost power for around 14 days, I learned something else about baked beans: they’re comfort when you need it most. The local school served baked beans and hot dogs for the community every night, giving people a warm meal and a place to gather. When everything else felt uncertain—no heat, no lights, trees cracking under the weight of ice—those beans were a constant. They reminded us we weren’t alone.

That’s the thing about baked beans. They’ve always been a staple of generosity. They’re inexpensive, they stretch to feed a crowd, and they fill you up when times are hard. From church basements to community dinners to volunteer organizations, baked beans show up when people need feeding. There’s something deeply New England about that—practical kindness, no fuss, just good food for whoever needs it.

A Dish Worth Making (or Buying)

Peter absolutely loves baked beans. I make them from scratch when I have the time, but I’m also not above buying the canned ones—and honestly, they’re quite good. B&M knew what they were doing with that century-old open-pot baking process. Sometimes on a busy weeknight, I’ll heat up a can alongside some grilled sausages, and Peter’s just as happy as if I’d spent eight hours tending to a pot in the oven.

But when I do make them from scratch, using Uncle Wayne’s method with salt pork and real maple syrup, it’s worth every minute. The beans become tender and sweet, the sauce thickens to a glossy, molasses-rich perfection, and the salt pork renders down into little nuggets of savory goodness throughout. It’s a dish that tastes like it’s been made this way for centuries—because it has.

The History Behind the Beans

Boston baked beans earned their place in New England kitchens through a combination of practicality and religious tradition. In colonial times, Puritan families observed the Sabbath strictly, which meant no cooking from sundown Saturday until sundown Sunday. Baked beans, which could be prepared on Saturday and slow-cooked overnight, became the perfect solution. By Sunday morning, you had a complete, hot meal that required no work.

The ingredients tell their own story. Navy beans (also called pea beans) were cheap, plentiful, and stored well. Molasses came through Boston’s busy port as part of the triangle trade. Salt pork was a preservation staple in every colonial household. And maple syrup—well, that was pure New England, harvested from the forests that surrounded every settlement. These weren’t exotic ingredients; they were what people had. The genius was in how they came together.

Why This Recipe Works

This version stays true to the traditional method while incorporating that touch of maple syrup that Uncle Wayne insisted upon. The salt pork provides both fat and seasoning, slowly rendering throughout the long cooking time. The molasses and maple syrup balance each other—one deep and slightly bitter, the other sweet and woodsy. A little mustard and ginger add complexity without announcing themselves.

The long, slow bake at 300°F does something magical. The beans break down just enough to thicken the sauce naturally while staying intact. The flavors meld together completely. The top develops a slight crust if you uncover it toward the end. It’s the kind of cooking that can’t be rushed, and that’s exactly the point.

Making It Your Own

Some families add ketchup. Some use brown sugar instead of maple syrup. Some cooks swear by bacon instead of salt pork (though purists will argue that changes the whole character of the dish). My uncle kept it simple with brown sugar. Check out Bush’s Grillin’ Beans – lots of ideas there (and they have a golden retriever on their commercials…).

The truth is, every New England family has their version, and they’re all “the authentic one.” That’s part of the beauty of baked beans—they’re traditional enough to have rules, but forgiving enough to make your own.

Serving Suggestions

Traditionally, Boston baked beans are served with brown bread—a slightly sweet, molasses-flavored steamed bread that’s another New England specialty. (We can actually buy it in a can here in New England and I have met people who think that’s nuts!) But they’re just as good with cornbread, alongside hot dogs or grilled sausages, or as part of a full New England boiled dinner. Or, perhaps: a sourdough boule. Leftovers (if you have them) are phenomenal for breakfast with a fried egg on top.

They’re perfect for a crowd, they travel well to potlucks, and they actually taste better the next day after the flavors have had more time to develop. Make a big batch, and you’ll have comfort food for days.

Why I Keep Making Them

Every time I have baked beans, I think about grandfather Richardson, cooking on a fishing vessel out of Canso. I think about Uncle Wayne showing me how to layer the salt pork, quite possibly carrying on Richardson’s own recipe. I think about that B&M factory sign on Route 295, and those massive iron bean pots being filled on the top floor of a building that stood for over a century making the same dish the same way. I think about the school gym during the ice storm, long tables set up, neighbors sharing a meal in the semi-darkness. I think about Peter’s face when he sees I’ve made a pot from scratch.

Baked beans aren’t fancy. They’re not trying to impress anyone. They’re just good, honest food that’s been feeding New Englanders—and Nova Scotian fishermen, and families like mine—for centuries. They taste like home, like history, like community. And that’s worth making time for.

So here’s the recipe—Uncle Wayne’s teaching, quite possibly grandfather Richardson’s formula, combined with traditional New England method. It takes time, but it’s not complicated. And when you pull that pot from the oven and the whole house smells like maple and molasses and centuries of Saturday suppers, you’ll understand why this dish has endured.

Some things are worth waiting for. These beans are one of them.