on beans and bacon, and nudging dry leaves around cement

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.

where would i be without bacon?

The first smell I can remember is bacon frying.

I was four years old, or at least young enough for Jem and the Holograms to still be showing re-runs on Saturday mornings. Remember that one?

I would plop myself in front of the tv, and soon enough the comforting smell of bacon would waft its way to me. At this point I would go down to the kitchen, sneak a piece from the plate it was resting on, and watch the second act, pancakes. I loved this part.

My dad specialized in K-shaped pancakes, which my sister Krissa (convenient) and I ate with endless amusement. When breakfast was ready, I would crumble most of my bacon on top of the edible letters, reserving a couple pieces to dunk straight into a bowl of maple syrup like Oreos into milk, the best sweet and savory 1-2 punch five bucks can buy, and a Saturday tradition I honor faithfully.

I think the idea of tradition is what sticks out most about those breakfasts for me. I’ve always been especially comforted by traditions, the steady sameness of them time after time. I’m not someone who is especially freaked out by change, but it’s nice to return to the things that make you happy, especially when they are delicious. Food is a powerful anchor for memories, and those breakfasts were one of the pillars of my early childhood.

So when I smell pancakes rising or bacon sizzling, I remember being four, and soon enough I’ve triggered a whole stream of memories from those years…simple material things like this one especially soft purple sweater of my mom’s, and stories that have been told a hundred times, like the day I tried to ride my Barbie Jeep to the mall. (I was apprehended at the top of the block.) In my first post I wrote that consumption is intensely personal, and this is one of the ways I meant that. Everyone has their own triggers that evoke vivid memories of certain times or places, and in some cases they go so far as to influence our preferences and habits.

For example, I sometimes lapse into periods of half assed vegetarianism for a week or two at a time, characterized by a lot of lentils, quinoa, and other "plant based proteins" that my boyfriend Jake refers to as rabbit food. I’ve often considered making a more serious commitment, but it always comes down to bacon. I just fucking love it. Sorry. Case in point, I keep a container of reserved bacon fat in my fridge, and the good people of Phillips Deli know exactly how I like my BLT. (on toasted wheat, with avocado and sprouts, should you ever need to know)

Bacon is, simply, one of my favorite foods. And I can’t help but wonder if that has to do, in some small part, with the positive associations I keep. Aside from the fact that it’s one of the world’s most perfect foods, in all its salty, chewy, crispy deliciousness, I think it’s infinitely more appealing to me thanks to memories of eating it crumbled on top of K-shaped pancakes.

PS – Evidently, pancake artistry is not a genetic trait. Mine suck.