• ham and bean soup

    Every year we make a ham for Christmas, and then every year after Christmas I decide to make ham and bean soup with the scraps but, because I’ve never bothered to nail down a recipe, I end up frantically casting about for a recipe. What I cobble together is, more often than not, decidedly mediocre.

    But this year, the soup turned out dee-LISH-ous, and I was like, “That’s IT. I’m taking notes. This one’s going in my files.” BANG-BANG (the sound of me nailing down a recipe).

    My future self thanks me. 

    Ham and Bean Soup
    Adapted from the blog A Spicy Perspective.

    The original recipe called for navy beans but when I got home from the store I discovered I’d mispurchased Great Northern. Now, looking back, I think one of the reasons we may have liked this soup so much is because I used Great Northern beans — they’re bigger and creamier — and everyone (even the non-bean fans!) gobbled it right up.

    Our ham bone was picked pretty clean so I added two cups of chopped, leftover ham.

    In the above photo (on Day Two of the soup), the kale looks darker and the soup creamier — the beans have begun to break down — than it was on Day One, but it was equally delicious both days. 

    1 pound dried Great Northern (or navy) beans
    1 ham bone
    1 large onion, chopped
    1 tablespoon olive oil
    2 cups chopped ham
    6 cloves garlic, minced
    2 carrots, peeled and diced
    2 stalks celery, diced
    2 teaspoons cumin
    ½ teaspoon dried thyme (or 1 tablespoon fresh)
    ½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
    10 cups chicken broth (or water)
    4-6 cups fresh kale, rough chopped

    Soak the beans overnight in cold water. Drain, cover with water again, and simmer over medium heat until almost completely tender. (I skipped the overnight soak and just simmered them longer.) As the ham may be quite salty, do not add any salt to the beans until the very end.

    In a large stockpot, saute the onion, carrot, celery, ham bone, and garlic in the olive oil over medium high heat for about 5-10 minutes. Add the dried thyme, pepper flakes, and cumin and cook another minute. Add four cups of chicken broth and bring to a simmer. Add the mostly-cooked beans along with their cooking water (about four cups, I’m guessing?), and simmer for 30-60 minutes, or until the beans are completely soft. 

    Add the chopped ham and kale and simmer for another 15 minutes, or until the kale is cooked through. Remove the ham bone — pick off any remaining bits of ham and add it to the soup — and season the soup with salt and black pepper.

    Serve with hot biscuits, cornbread, or buttered toast.

    This same time, years previous: salad dressing: a basic formula, lemon cream cake, the quotidian (1.19.15), chuck roast braised in red wine.

  • the quotidian (1.18.21)

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace

    Working lunch: chorizo, egg, and warm tortillas.

    Crostata test: rhubarb and red raspberry.

    Sunday dinner door-drop from my mama: incredible chicken with dried prunes and olives.

    The steers have relocated.

    David Copperfield and dishes.

    Girl’s got flair!

    All the time: talking, arguing, and thinking, and in that order.

    In town with a friend, a walk-by sighting of my husband’s work.

    DON’T YOU DARE.

    Dogsitting: killing us with cuteness.

    That’s not how you wear a mask, son.

    Sunday geography lesson, and my new rug.

    This same time, years previous: pozole, no-knead sourdough bread, doing stupid safely, homemade grainy mustard, the quotidian (1.18.16), just do it, cream cheese dip, day one, polenta and greens, snapshots and captions, Julia’s chocolate almond cake.

  • this is who we are

    We were on the interstate, driving home from Massachusetts (more on this later), when the news of the insurrection broke. I was stunned and horrified, of course. But I was not surprised. The President had been rabble rousing for weeks, so I’d figured something was bound to happen.

    Listening to the reports, it didn’t take long for me to grow exasperated with the newscasters and their tiresome “How could this have happened?” refrain — as though this came out of nowhere — but when they started with the somber intonations of “This is not America” and “This is not who we are,” that’s when I exploded.

    “This is EXACTLY who we are,” I yelled at my husband, “and denying nearly half of our population — dismissing them out of hand as though they don’t even exist — is stupid. If we don’t see things for how they actually are — not as we wish them to be — then we will never change.

    A couple days later my mom forwarded a link to this video which succinctly encapsulates my thoughts. Watching it was cathartic. I’m not the only one.

    I have relatives who were in the crowd that day — they didn’t go into the capitol, they say, but they were at the base of the steps — and I have other relatives who, watching from afar, were exultant. 

    With my friends, I puzzle over the best approach. My ideas run the gamut: from mockery to serious debate, from lambasting rage to loving rebuke, from complete disengagement to silent watchfulness.

    Nothing I come up with feels right.  

    Awhile back, I heard a report on how best to engage with people who are ensnared in conspiracy theories. The solution is simple, the guy said: hours and hours of conversation in which each theory is painstakingly broken down into bite-sized chunks and overlaid with facts. It’s a tedious exercise in logic, reminiscent of the sort of conversation a parent might have with a teen (speaking from experience here), and there are two key requirements: lots of available time, and a close relationship important enough to warrant the time commitment. 

    Regarding my personal connections, I have the time but not the closeness — so, so much for that. Not that it really matters, though — the guy on the report said that it’s all but impossible to detangle someone who is committed to conspiracies. 

    Discouraging, no?

    So I try to take the long view. What can I do now that, five years from now, I will feel proud of? What about fifty years from now? I think of the future history books and try to imagine myself in them. I mean, not me as in Jennifer’s Going To Be In A History Book!, but my position in the pages. Where will I fall? 

    Better yet, where do I want to place myself?

    Thinking this way doesn’t really change anything — I’m still mystified and repulsed by these staggeringly bizarre theories — but it helps me stay open and hold my anger (of the retaliatory, unhelpful sort) in check.

    These conspiracy theories (and all the other accompanying dangerous and damaging ideologies) aren’t going away any time soon, so if you have any brilliant insights for how to cope and/or confront them, tell me. I need help figuring this out.

    This same time, years previous: the quotidian (1.14.19), through the kitchen window, quick fruit cobbler, starting today.