Poetry In a Pot of Beans

In Jane Hirshfield's poem "Tree," there are two things that can usher in calmness during uncertain times: "this clutter of soup pots and books—" It's one of the poems I was adamant about including in the cookbook, and I paired her words with, among other things, a pot of white beans because sometimes it's the most utterly simple yet magical thing you can cook.

Once they're tender, I like to do as Rachel Roddy suggests in My Kitchen in Rome, which is to combine some whole beans with others that have been reduced to a purée. It results in a not-quite-soup situation that's still thick enough to hold its own but loose enough to gather with a spoon or a swipe of bread. We made it lunch a couple of weeks ago, after coming back from the beach.

The final thing I added was a generous drizzle of olive oil, the kind you might reserve for special occasions—Ok, I drenched them—but I've had a change of heart on the matter, and believe these little indulgences should be every day occurrences as often as possible. 

I'm very enthusiastic about this particular tin because it came to me from northern California last month I only found out about it because it's made by Robin Sloan, who I spoke with on on a panel in Michigan. Naturally, I had Googled him beforehand and asked about this olive oil situation when we met. He and his girlfriend were in the middle of the first harvest, and this bottle is from the very first pressing of these olives, ever. 

In the tasting notes (yes, olive oil can and should come with tasting notes), there are instructions for slurping and mentions of artichoke and how well the oil might pair with roasted vegetables. Then there's the very wise recommendation to use it with abandon. Because it's unfiltered, it's even more likely to spoil sooner, so it's not something to keep in the back shelf for a rainy day, which reminds me of a section in Dani Shapiro's memoir Hourglass, when she recalls a bottle of oil brought back from her honeymoon in France. 

"We waited for a special occasion to open the olive oil. No occasion seemed quite special enough. After all, we had the bottles home with us in our carry-on. You could do this back then. Finally, preparing dinner for friends one evening, we opened one. Of course, it had gone rancid."

The moral of the story, of course, is to use it and enjoy it. Don't wait. Make a pot of beans. Drizzle them with wonderful oil. Eat a plate alone, or with friends, it doesn't matter. In "Ode to Oil" Pablo Neruda writes:

Oil,
hidden and most important
ingredient of the stew,
base for partridges,
celestial key to mayonnaise...

Oil,
with our voice,
our chorus,
with intimate
powerful smoothness
you sing...

It is indeed an "abundant treasure." In recent weeks I've rubbed some into kale leaves, swirled it on soup. And of course, the beans, where so much poetry resides, and where a plate feeds you mightily, body and soul.

Living With Poetry | The Heat of Winter

When you rinse beans in a colander and rustle them with you hand, they sound like pebbles collected from a rocky beach. 

That's one reason why I love cooking with beans, the gentle sound they make. Some other more practical- and nutritionally-based reasons are that they're good for you, creamy on the inside, and are easy to make and freeze for later. If I have cooked beans in the house, I know a decent meal is always achievable. So I've been making a lot of beans this month, from garbanzo beans for hummus to black and pinto beans for chili. All beans have been welcome.

Sunshine, also, has been welcome, although its abundance is an embarrassment of riches given the circumstances in other parts of the country.  I'm not one to complain about the heat of winter. In California, it's a constant reminder of how good we have it, but with all the 75-degree weather we've been having (sorry, East Coast folks!), I've been craving cold. Not too much, of course, but a weekend of good, consistent rain would make me very happy. (I prefer rain on Saturdays when I can stay at home and enjoy it, not when I have to get on the freeway and drive to work.)

I always watch Hello, Dolly when it rains. And I make soup. But so far, there hasn't been a good day for this, so all the parasols and parades and musical numbers will have to wait until the mood strikes. Aside from failing to watch a favorite movie, the constant warm weather is also causing drought and fire, two things we're far too familiar with in California and that a good dose of rain could help quell. But I can't avoid soup for too long, even when it's warm, so I've been making a series of stews with meat or grains or beans that lend a bit of heft and offer up profound satisfaction. 

That's January so far. Sunshine, beans, stews, and re-reading Jane Hirshfield's After. Reading a poetry collection by Jane Hirshfield is like standing on the edge of a mountain and letting your face absorb the wind. Her poems just resonate. They always make you feel something, usually more than one thing, and make you think and question long after the book has been placed back on the shelf. That's been my experience, anyway. This poem, in particular, seemed well suited for a discussion of beans in the new year.

---

Two Washings

by Jane Hirshfield

One morning in a strange bathroom
a woman tries again and again to wash the sleep
from her eyelids' corners,
until she understands.  Ah, she thinks, it begins.
Then goes to put on the soup,
first rerinsing the beans, then lifting the cast-iron pot
back onto the stove with two steadying hands.

From After, Harper Perennial, 2006

---

It's remarkable how much we can learn of this woman in seven lines. The fact that she's in a strange bathroom is telling, and points to an upheaval of some kind. But she's not in a hotel or on vacation escaping, because unless she's rented a little flat with a kitchen and gone to the market, she wouldn't be rinsing beans before the sun comes up. She must be staying with someone. A friend, more than a friend, a family member. Wherever she is, she is trying to steady her hands again. Two washings for the beans, two for the spirit. 

---

Barley, Bean and Mustard Greens Stew

Recipe adapted from Bon Appetit

A photo of this soup occupied a full page in the January issue of Bon Appetit, and I dog-eared it immediately. The original recipe uses spelt, but since I had a mason jar full of barley in the pantry, I made a simple substitution. Farro would also do nicely here. I reduced the red pepper flakes from 3/4 teaspoon to 1/2 teaspoon and felt that the soup had plenty of spice, so modify this to your liking.

1 medium onion, chopped
1 small fennel bulb, cored and chopped
1 carrot, chopped
1 celery stalk, chopped
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for serving
1 cup barley
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
12 cups vegetable stock
1/2 head escarole, leaves torn into pieces
2 cups cooked cannellini or navy beans
Parmesan cheese, for serving

Dump the onion, fennel, carrot and celery into the bowl of a food processor and pulse until finely chopped. Heat the oil in a large stock pot over medium heat. Add the barley and cook, stirring often, until the grains are slightly browned and smell fragrant, about 3 minutes.

Add the vegetables and season with a generous pinch of salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are softened, about 6 to 8 minutes. Add the tomato paste and red pepper flakes, and cook until the paste is well-incorporated, about 1 minute.

Pour the broth into the pot and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, partially covered, until the barley is tender, about 20 to 40 minutes, depending on the grain. Stir in escarole and beans and cook for another 3 to 4 minutes, or until the escarole is wilted and the beans have warmed through. Serve drizzled with additional oil and topped with Parmesan shavings.