Beans on Toast
The Anti-Set and Forget Movement
My instant pot hissed its last death rattle. It has been the workhorse mainstay on my counter for going on 6 six years. It was a part of the rhythm of my kitchen. Beans on Fridays. Bone Broth on Sundays. Mashed potato Mondays.
The lure of a “set and forget” and rice in 12 minutes is a dream for a family attempting to get to soccer practice and play rehearsal at opposite ends of the state, at the same time.
And yet.
I woke at 5:57 this morning dreaming, as I often do, of dinner. Something simple and slow. To savor with a glass of rośe, outside on the patio. So I poured a bag of dried, Royal Corona beans into my Dutch oven and covered them with hot water to soak for the morning. And the act of knowing that I was intentional with something that would need a keen eye was a gentle reminder.
It’s not always helpful to set and forget.
I’ve made a commitment to refrain from producing content on social media for a while. The self-imposed expectation to produce was increasing anxiety- the felt responsibility to share something of relevancy or hope or transparency is always simmering, but it’s not ready yet. Like a pot of dried beans, it needs time and patience. I have tried the scheduling in advance ( and yes, I do that as part of my job, for others) but I cannot simply set and forget my own words. They mean too much.
My youngest has been bitten by the baking bug and I am finding cinnamon sugar in every crack of my butcher block countertop, ground in like sand. She sewed a navy blue suit with matching tie for her stuffed rabbit this weekend and calmed our anxious dog by holding her head in her lap for hours and whispering- “it’s ok, I get scared sometimes, too.” She is a fierce and unapologetic nurturer.
My husband leaves early for work, and before long, it will be dark when he goes. The air has shifted and I padded out barefoot in the yard littered with dog toys over to our defunct pond, now overrun by frogs. The gnats are a nuisance and my loud complaining is often met with my youngest’s gentle reminder that gnats are frog food, and now the frogs are family. We have always fed the people we love, I suppose.
I will eat raw tomatoes at every meal in September, ingesting the warmth of the summer sun like a goddess. Isn’t it sort of a miracle that we were made to consume the elements in this way? On sourdough, toasted in olive oil and rubbed with a garlic clove. Sprinkled with Maldon flaky sea salt.
My day begins at my choosing, but it is often early so that I can address what needs addressing before the barrage of buses home. This means I am scheduling emails to colleagues at 6 am who will not turn on their laptops for 4 more hours. I prefer to work as soon as I wake, and then be done with it. When the productivity guru’s first started quoting Mark Twain’s “eat the frog” illustration, I didn’t understand why it made such an impact. Doesn’t everyone do this? Run, at the first light of day as though to escape emanate disaster?
I work as soon as my eyes open. I know everyone says I should take the morning to prepare myself for the day= to eat something with protein and sit on the rower for 15 minutes and meditate in a sunny window. This is not who I am. Why have we ever thought someone’s way of life would fit ours completely?
When I daydream, it’s about deep bodies of water, cold noses, soft towels. Steaming hot cups of black coffee. Cold glasses of white wine and mussels. Linen. Barefeet. Walking from one ancient city to the next. China trimmed in gold. Swimming at midnight. If I could, I would work in the early hours on the morning, siesta from 2-5, host dinner parties, write and swim late into the evening. This is my natural rhythm. I wonder how many of us are walking around in everyone else’s rhythm. Like one, giant Tim Burton-esque flash mob. When was the last time you considered what your own rhythm was? When was the last time you allowed yourself to daydream about anything?
There are already leaves in my front yard and I have already panicked about how full the calendar is from start to finish this week. I have fought against all of my other coping mechanisms and haven’t cooked enough meals to feed the neighborhood to “prepare” ( no one loves leftovers in this house, and it means all of my careful planning and prepping end up in the bin) and instead planned to visit a favorite restaurant once this week and make “assembly” dinners the rest of them. (These are kid friendly charcuterie boards).
I have visited the beans all day. Adjusting the alliums. Pulling the stems of thyme leafs through the bubbling broth. Adding some salt. I put basil, garlic, cilantro, lemon juice and olive oil in my little bullet ninja to drizzle when done.
This is my season of anti-set and forget. It is my season of seeing what comes, accepting it when it’s here, and making something beautiful with it. Though, if anyone has a spare instant pot- please let me know.
Things That Are Bringing Me Home…
I’ve been privileged to be on the inside of Kendra Adachi’s latest book launch for The Plan. If you’re a woman of middle age and ready to tell all the influencers on socials who tell you how to optimize your life to go to hell….this is for you. It’s not really “A Plan” as much as it is permission to live in the season you’re in, and make it work for you. You can pre-order it here.
I’ve never been a burrata fan, but Jersey Girl Cheese made me a convert. Toast a piece of sourdough in a skillet with a drizzle of olive oil and rub with the cut end of a garlic clove, slice up some of those tomatoes I was talking about ( everyone has opinions, but Ethos farm has had some of my favorite heirlooms this season) and serve that creamy burrata right smack in the middle with some freshly ground pepper.
Did you know that early Celtic myth is full of powerful, feminine archetypes? Have you ever read a book that framed patriarchal societies as a relatively NEW societal structure? I’ve been reading Sharon Blackie’s “Hagitude” and it’s nothing of what I thought it would be, in the very best of ways. If you find yourself also dancing at the doors of middle age, read this. What a powerful, powerful example of how books change things.
I finally succumbed to Bobbi Brown’s Jones Road What the Foundation (Beige) and Miracle Balm (Dust Rose). I mean, fine, ok? You were all right. It’s the only time I am not offended being referred to as biege. I tend to have dry skin that is NOT prone to breakouts, and that’s why they work for me. I’m also an evangelist for May Lindstrom’s Blue Cocoon and the products work beautifully together.
Whatever is on your plate today, please make sure to make room for what brings you home.