One night I was standing over a pot of beans, stirring and staring aimlessly, when my roommate walked by the kitchen and said, “you look like you’re meditating.” I laughed…but realized she was right. I was in a complete trance; there was no pandemic, no mouse under our sink, no planet on fire. Not a single worry. What began as a peasant meal steadily evolved into a healing ritual; a very strange, spiritual experience where my mind was able to shut out everything around me, and for the foreseeable future, it’s just me and these beans. It became my form of meditation; therapy, even. I started actual therapy a year ago today, and my therapist asked me to write about the journey. But I’d rather write about beans. Perhaps they’re similar?
When a friend who is fairly new to cooking asks what they should try making for dinner, my first thought is always a pot of beans. For one thing, we’re trying more plant-based eating in 2022. Also - they’re just so cheap. But really the fun lies in taking a simple pantry ingredient and watching it transform into a complete meal; adding whatever ingredients you have around the kitchen to practice imparting flavor into a fairly “flavorless” item. Then you can decide where to take it from there. Yes, there is a time and place for a canned bean (I normally have about four different varieties in my pantry at all times). But the pure joy that comes from a dried bean is unmatched.
For me, that joy begins with procuring the beans. I use that word because I like to make the process as dramatic as possible. I’m not running down the street to buy just any bean. I’m taking the time to research and explore what beans are best for the dish I want. Do I want something starchy? Meaty? Creamy? Am I adding them to a salad/soup, or are they being served on their own? How old are they? (Yes, this matters). I often order from Rancho Gordo, a lovely company based out of Napa, California that specializes in heirloom beans. If you’re able to find fresh shell beans at your farmers market - even better.
Do you need to soak your beans overnight? Not really — you can do a quick soak, or honestly, no soak at all. But an overnight soak makes waking up in the morning all the more exciting, like Christmas morning. We’re all desperately searching for something to look forward to these days (have you met Wordle?). No — executing a good pot of beans doesn’t have to be a big to-do: you could Instant Pot it or drop them in a slow cooker. Personally, I have no interest in throwing beans and water into a machine, hitting start, and letting it do my work for me. That has less to do with my distrust of countertop appliances, and more to do with my complete need for ~*control*~. I’ve spent the last year trying to compartmentalize what I can and cannot control, and one thing I can control: a good pot of beans.
A couple hours before dinner, I’ll start cooking. I’ll quarter an onion and halve a small shallot, or whatever alliums I have on hand. I’ll add them to a large pot over medium heat, along with a crushed garlic clove or four, perhaps a lemon half, a couple dried chiles, lots of black pepper, and a good glug of olive oil. Maybe a bay leaf, or a few sprigs of thyme. After some browning has happened, I’ll add my beans (along with their soaking water), more water to cover the beans by two inches, a bundle of herbs (parsley? marjoram?), and then simmer until the beans are nice and creamy/tender.
The real *magic* happens during the simmering. While many will use this time to walk away from the kitchen and do other things, I try to stay with the moment. Maybe I’ll toast some breadcrumbs, char a few scallions, chop more herbs, wash a bunch of hearty greens; anything to make my beans feel extra loved. Maybe I’ll pour myself a glass of wine and slow dance with myself; so that I can feel extra loved. Maybe I’ll just lean against the countertop and stare at the grease spot on the floor; a moment of stillness, daydreaming. But every so often, I’ll revisit my beans; stirring gently, throwing in a parmesan rind halfway through (extra flavor!), adding more water as I watch it evaporate, and tasting/salting. Tasting four tender beans in a row means we’re ready. I’ll fish out any large aromatics that were added and mix in my greens until they’re wilted. Lastly, I’ll add a splash of vinegar to brighten everything up. Dish out, drop some crusty bread on the table, and we have dinner. I’ve never known such peace.
I’ve learned a lot from a year of cooking beans. Many invaluable skills in the kitchen — how to properly balance flavor; the versatility of vinegar; the value in fat and salt; the importance of tasting as you go. But also so many lessons beyond the kitchen — how to focus only on what’s within my control (why I stay away from baking); that finding joy in mundane moments is a special skill of mine; mindfulness is a real and beautiful gift; the power in patience; and most importantly - how to be alone without being lonely.
In my session this week, my therapist and I spent a good chunk of the hour reflecting on the last year (and also dishing on our shared obsession with And Just Like That...). I eventually told him about the topic of this week’s newsletter. He smiled big and laughed to himself. “I’ve never been compared to a bean.”
The Playlist
If you’re having a solo night in — this playlist is for you. It lends itself to that moment of “slow dancing alone” that I mentioned earlier. When your beans are simmering, turn up the volume, light some candles, get out the wine and sway your hips carelessly. Maybe there are a few moments where you allow yourself to sit, close your eyes, and just listen. The opening line of the playlist sings:
Promise I made was to love myself…
Have beans taught me to love myself? Ehh, unsure - but they’ve certainly helped.