Lately I've been focused on learning to cook simply. Maybe that's not the right way to say it. It's more that I'm starting at the beginning, with ingredients that are simple, and learning to prepare them in ways worthy of their grand potential. I'm knee deep in Tamar Adler's An Everlasting Meal and it really has me thinking about the way we approach cooking.
She writes in the first chapter, like MFK Fisher wrote for World War II era heads of house in How to Cook a Wolf, that we should be more confident in our abilities to transform the contents of our pantry into wonderful meals. We should celebrate with what we have and should shop and cook like who we are, people who are learning to cook and people who are hungry. And we should eat affordably, responsibly and well. Her words resonate with me and slow me to a pause. Reminding the reader that there is no such thing as perfect, she writes what is so far my favorite passage...
"When we cook things, we transform them. And any small acts of transformation are among the most human things we do. Whether it's nudging dry leaves around a patch of cement, or salting a tomato, we feel, when we exert tiny bits of our human preference in the universe, more alive."
That's the stuff, right? I've had her words in the back of my mind for the past few days, and I listen to them when I cook. I'm focusing on simplicity and making the most of what I have, bending it to my preference. Side bar...if you read this blog at all, you know that as a rule, I tend to buy more than I need and am intrigued by any condiment not already sitting on my shelf. I get excited for new recipes and sometimes end up buying a jar of something that I need two teaspoons of. While this has resulted in an extremely impressive array of mustard, it's also somewhat needless. So with Tamar's poetic advice, I'm focusing instead on the possibilities found in bits of onion, and other basics we underestimate.
The other night I took her words as a challenge and made dinner from only what I had on hand, save for $2 worth of endive I bought at the grocery store because I literally had nothing green in my apartment. (Shame on me.) I started with white beans, bacon and beef broth and ended with something that warmed me, filled and fulfilled me. The beans, simmered slowly in broth, glossy with rich bacon fat, were as creamy as mashed potatoes. I dressed them with a healthy drizzle of good olive oil and a hint of aged balsamic and the bowl sang.
This was just my cabinet. I strongly advise that you try the same exercise. I think you will be pleasantly surprised at what you can come up with. But if you happen to have beans, bacon and a few bouillon cubes hanging around, this is really something.
Measurements are rough...this made two healthy portions
6 pieces of thick bacon, cut into lardons
Half a medium onion, I used a red because it was all I had
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 regular or one large can cannellini beans, drained
1 cup beef broth (or one bouillon cube dissolved into one cup hot water)
1/2 lb belgian endive, cored and coarsely chopped. Kale would be nice too.
Fresh thyme, 3 or 4 stems worth
Olive oil for drizzling
Cook the bacon in a large pan over medium heat until it's crispy, then transfer it to a paper towel. Lower the heat and add the onion and saute until soft, then add the garlic, thyme and endive and saute for a few minutes, until the endive is wilted and translucent. Add the bacon back into the pan, then pour the beans and broth. Partially cover the pot and simmer on low for about 30 minutes. The longer you let it go, the more the flavors develop. (I just happened to be really hungry after half an hour.) You can always add more broth if it reduces down too much.
Ladle your beans into a bowl - they should be thick and wet, with some broth pooling at the bottom. Lavish them with a good grind of pepper and a drizzle, or dousing, of olive oil. I also gave them a little sweet balsamic love, but that's just me.
More soon with other things I'm sure this book will teach me. Until then, beans and bacon. I'm telling you.
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