The Bean Project Continues – Bean Soup

“How can I help?” Welcome words, offered by my husband the other Sunday, as I headed over to paint the Buffalo closet, ahead of the carpenter coming to put back the shelving. Instead of feeling overwhelmed by the shortening day, the jobs to be done, the overflowing refrigerator, I smiled in gratitude and said, “Soup!”

I turned to a recipe offered by our farmer Karyn in her weekly newsletter two autumns ago. She titled it “Fall Inspiration Soup,” but I think of it as what’s-in-the fridge soup, or now as cooperative, collaborative soup (my favorite thing). It’s infinitely variable – and quick – no sauté needed!

I piled possible ingredients on the kitchen island: new potatoes, stems of chard, celery, shallots, a leek or two, and one sweet onion. Fresh rosemary. A can of crushed tomatoes – and beans.

Oops, I hadn’t soaked beans, this being a last moment offer. I remembered Mark Bittman calls the myth about soaking “the most egregious, and the most harmful” of the bean myths, because “it has given millions of people the impression that beans must be prepared well in advance.” Bittman says flatly and in italics: “Although soaking speeds cooking, it does not do so significantly,” and that soaking overnight shaves just 15 to 30 minutes off the cooking time.

But, if you soak, Bittman tells us:  “Soak the right way.” (Soaking does reduce the oligosaccharides in beans – those hard to digest carbohydrates.)

So I followed his hot water soak advice while I ate breakfast: rinse, sort, and then cover beans with water in a pot (I used a cup of pinto beans and six cups of water). Bring to a boil, cook for two minutes, turn off the heat, and let sit for an hour. Then, after another rinse, I put the beans to cook as usual (well covered with water and salt added), issued instructions, and went off to paint.

I came back to a lovely miracle: soup simmering, beans cooked and ready to add (in just under an hour after their hot soak). This bean method was a revelation – so many times I stall at recipes calling for beans because of lack of planning the day before.

They were delicious – making the soup (an “even better the next day” soup) hearty and inspiring.

A Yellow Pepper – Peperonata

Nothing has surprised me more than how much I have written about food in this blog – I think that reflects how much food has connected me to this place.

The Uptown Farmer’s Market on Saturday is a block-long cornucopia of delight – stands full of farm produce treasure, live music, beautiful food produced or cooked locally – cheese, salmon, coffee, baked goods, bagels, and much more. You could pick any number of favorite booths, but I find it hard to get past the first three.

Under the name Willow Wind Nursery, our neighbors raise and sell plants and flowers. They are young and exuberant and kind. (I barely knew them when our dog Bill died, but they cried with me, gave me flowers, and loaned a pickaxe to dig the grave.) A lot of the plants here – that nepeta I like so much – come from their nursery. This Saturday morning, we talk about the neighborhood and their flower stand on our road in the summer, while I pick out zinnias in Crayola colors.

The farmers of Wildwood Farm, who add to their own produce by going east of the mountains to bring back corn and peaches, this day had a surprise – a blog-perfect display of dried beans: black, white, pinto, and kidney from a brother’s farm in Nebraska. These beans – transported in big bags on a westward trip to celebrate a graduation – got repackaged for us. A food mantra nowadays says to “know your farmer” (or your farmer’s brother). That connecting has been such a pleasure in moving here, and is part of why I stall at the familiar vendors in a market bursting with bounty and choice.

Red Dog Farm has a tremendous presence – the young farmer offers everything we get in the CSA and more. This Saturday a paintable yellow pepper caught my eye. Colored peppers are ripe versions of the standard green issue, and this one was a beauty.

At home black beans already soaked on the counter, I thumbed through Jack Bishop’s “Vegetables Every Day” and discovered a recipe for “Stewed Peppers with Tomato and Onion (Peperonata).” Perfect for today’s market harvest: sauté slowly sweet onions and peppers, add chopped-up fresh tomatoes, fresh thyme leaves, salt and pepper, and cook a little longer. Serve hot or room temperature. It will make a great side with leftover squash and potato gratin.

And while the beans cooked, I painted the pepper. The food is inspiring here and a pleasure – a pleasure increased by knowing our farmers!

Black Beans and Rice

“September is a summer month!” the speaker declared. Twice in the same day I overheard this defiance – at the grocery store and then again at the post office – Northwest people convincing themselves that this summer isn’t over. Warm days and harvest moon nights still to come.

Maybe as a tiny harbinger, just a bare hint of the beginning-to-change season, and part of the ongoing bean project, I’ve been wanting to explore things to make with black beans, like meals I order in restaurants happily – black bean burgers or Café Flora’s “Oaxaca Tacos.”

Flipping through Mark Bittman’s book I came upon his recipe for “Moors and Christians, Black Beans and Rice, Spanish Style,” and thought how we hadn’t had that in a long time. (Bittman explains that the “Muslim Moors ruled devoutly Christian Spain for seven centuries; what else should the world’s best-known bicolor dish be called?” But I’m not convinced that title is acceptable anymore – it’s historic and dated in a complicated way. Perhaps optimistically, I like to think of it as shorthand for a kind of getting along, neighboring mosques and cathedrals, that seems to have happened in Spain, until it didn’t.)

When home one summer our older son introduced “Moors and Christians” into the regular dinner rotation – and taught me how to make it. We used canned beans in those days, but the dish became a favorite. A good dinner the first night, and the leftovers were useful during the summers, when kids were working construction and always hungry. Black beans and rice in a tortilla makes a portable lunch for a working guy – or one home to quickly “grab something.”

Bittman celebrates rice and beans as “one of the most important of all culinary marriages.” “They are cheap, they provide good protein and plenty of carbohydrates, and they don’t take a lot of work to make them delicious.”

Black beans and rice couldn’t be easier and using leftover “real beans” is a treat, but not necessary. Put rice on to cook (Bittman suggests a pilaf, which means initially cooking the rice in oil before adding water, but plain brown rice works). Sauté onions and a green or red pepper if you want, and garlic. Add a cup or so of chopped tomatoes (canned tomatoes in winter, but now it’s fun to use local tomatoes).

Add the beans (and some bean liquid if they’re home-cooked beans), and simmer till the liquid is nearly gone. Mound the rice in a shallow serving bowl and surround with the bean mixture.

Maybe black beans and rice let the seasons co-exist – the other night we made them with fresh tomatoes and served with the last of the corn on the cob. In their next iteration the rice and black beans will be mixed up – as leftovers – companionably.

Beans and Greens

The greens I had in mind were turnips or kale or collards, chard or spinach. But on our last hike, a day when we drove out of thick and chilly fog, through the meadows and farms above Sequim to the Upper Dungeness trailhead – I thought of the “great green room” of Margaret Wise Brown’s “Goodnight Moon.”

But that wasn’t quite what I saw. The trail begins in a stand of old growth trees – the firs and hemlocks aren’t so enormous in girth as they are tall – so tall you trip backwards attempting to see the tops.

Under those trees, we hiked in a chlorophyll-filled world, following a clear non-glacial stream, through the green glow of forest. Not a room exactly but more like being inside a leaf – a journey along veins and ribs – with the sun shining through.

Moss covers logs beside the riverbank, like a thick green version of the fuzzy white lining of fava bean pods. Shiny leaves on plants of mahonia and queen’s cup, moss, ferns, and kinnikinick cover the ground to each side of the trail. Miniature woodlots of lime green seedlings grow on nurse logs. One huge stump’s roots lie nearly in the river with a tiny fir forest fuzzing its top. An orange columbine caught my eye, but mostly there is no color beyond the gradations of greens.

The ascent is kind because of a gradual elevation gain and bridges made from logs – both bridges with hand rails and flattened tops built by the Forest Service (it’s thrilling, but safe, to stand on a log in the middle of the river) – or bridges created by nature, casual downfalls slippery with spray, reaching across a snow-melt creek.

Camp Handy – our turnaround point three miles in – is a wooden shelter next to a sunny meadow. Gravel bars, surrounded by a thick stand of willow, edge the river. Mountains enclose this long valley.

We spread windbreakers on a groundcover of wood strawberry and moss, ate tortilla de patatas sandwiches (contained by panini buns this time), and watched yellow butterflies on buttercups and cow parsley.

Walking out, down through green loveliness – I wondered about life’s big questions like, “What’s for dinner?”

The night before I sautéed golden turnip greens with onions and garlic, and added cannellini beans cooked with sage. Classic beans and greens. And a side of fava beans – the outer felted pods removed and beans sautéed in a little olive oil with garlic.

So, easy dinner this night would be the leftover beans added to a salad made from a gathering of greens – several different lettuces, avocado, snow peas, small chop of broccoli, spinach, frilly Savoy cabbage – and an orange highlight from a sliced nectarine. Olive oil with Meyer lemon and blackberry balsamic vinegar (treats brought by a friend from the Pike Street Market in Seattle) will quickly combine into a delicious salad dressing.

In and amongst all those greens I saw in the forest was fava bean green – the green of the tender inside part, teased from its husk and eaten with pleasure. I’ll add those in. Beans and greens.

The Bean Project – Fesols de Santa Pau

Our younger son’s sweet friend – stalwart Spain hiker with rose-colored day pack full of treats and sundries, always a cheerful sight up ahead on the trail – is from Thailand. A good and adventurous cook, she made the Santa Pau beans as soon as she got home and sent a photo and the recipe. It’s a white bean salad adaptation (with no added Thai magic she assured me).

I’ve never made a bean salad before (so many new things with the bean project), so I cooked the beans using Mark Bittman’s “Tuscan Bean” recipe. It called for sage, and the sage plant in the garden is a three-foot, flowering giant with many small new leaves.

I did read in Bittman about how to cook beans (more stalling). Santa Pau beans are small, at least the ones I have, smaller than black-eyed peas. (And I read in Deborah that size does not determine cooking time – age does.) I’d always thought one was not supposed to add salt to the cooking water, (Bittman calls that a common misperception). Deborah says to add salt when beans have begun to soften but aren’t done; Bittman says to add it in the middle if you want, but for sure to add it before the end of cooking.

The recipe called for tossing the beans together with sliced red onions (I substituted red scallions from the CSA, Italian parsley (I used the ordinary kind from the garden which is also huge and unfortunately about to flower), pitted and sliced Kalamata olives, plum tomatoes, olive oil, lemon juice and zest, salt and pepper. Then added two cups of torn arugula.

The beans were great – and the salad! And like lots of things even better for next day summer lunch as the flavors mingle.

It’s taking me a while to break into our carried-home treasure stash which includes Catalan tomato preserve packed in a wooden box – perfect on a sourdough baguette. Next time!

Walking, Bus, Barcelona

Failure to check the bus schedule back to Barcelona left us with three hours in Olot, the bigger city near Santa Pau, whose unassuming outskirts hide a medieval center. The trail boss negotiated baggage storage with the bus depot’s café owner, and we walked along tree-lined streets or under the shade of stores’ arcades to the Museu dels Vocans to see the natural history exhibits.

The museum had displays of plants and birds labeled with their more recognizable Latin names, and a startling volcano video – with lifelike room-shaking earthquake. Back at the café, we ate impossibly good baguettes containing tortilla de patatas – and more crisps.

On the bus ride through torrential rain, we viewed the countryside from dry and cushioned seats. Near Barcelona, I asked a young woman carrying a portfolio and reading an English phrase book for directions. A student of ancient languages and fine art, and eager to practice her English, she guided us – through another cloudburst – to the Placa de Catalunya. English is a third language for this part of Spain – lucky for us – we could often talk to people because of their understanding of our language.

Our last day – on the top of Montjuïc, a cupcake of a mountain at the edge of Barcelona – sitting at a café on the steps of the Museum of Catalan Art, eating a mango ice in sunshine and listening to a musician strum his Spanish guitar, we watched tourists posing against a backdrop of Tiepolo clouds with Barcelona spread out below. I savored the moment and mused on our trip.

Early morning sounds of birds and cows and roosters in villages and the clatter of footsteps on cobblestones echoing in the Barri Gòtik in Barcelona – walking those streets and sitting atop hillsides, you travel in the footsteps of two millennia of people. Traces left – Roman walls and aqueducts, little Romanesque churches with views to awe and such a pilgrimage to reach, you can imagine lives lived – both invaders and the singular people of Catalonya.

Such a privilege to be reduced to the elemental parts of life – grateful for amiable companions, meditative walking, food for the journey, and places to stop with the sun or shade, view or shelter. And to be greeted each night with comfort.

My mind is full of color and sights – painted tiles and the staring eyes of Catalan frescoes – and thoughts of Santa Pau beans cooked in the Northwest and our local bread spread with their delicious tomato preserve!

Clambering Man – and Woman

Miguel always referred to our third day as the “large walk ”  – 11 miles through the Garrotxa, an area of forested, ancient volcanoes and a renowned beech forest – with several “steep ascents.”

In his giant book “Barcelona” (which I read on the trip and wish I’d read before), Robert Hughes describes Catalan art and life and people. He tells of the isolation of these foothills and mountains, and says communication was only possible at the speed of a “clambering man” – not climbing exactly, but requiring stretched thighs, well placed feet, and a slow pace.

On the third day, a dark cloud moved close while we ate a lunch packed by Carmen (sandwich of cheese and ham or fruit paste on crusty, chewy bread). Raindrops began with five miles to go, so we pulled out jackets – and got soaked by hard but never cold rain.

Maybe the rain made the approach to ancient Santa Pau perfect. In the distance, from the field where we stopped to share the second of our tiny bottles of Ratafia Russet (bought at a local Farm Co-op earlier in the day – along with cherries and chocolate), we could see Santa Pau’s 15th century castle and church tower through rain and mist. It was easy to imagine being footsore travelers of old.

The young people high-fived at the door to a small hotel in converted country house, and we all celebrated in a restaurant with low ceilings and thick walls, on the main square of the oldest part of town, ancient setting with upscale dining.

The rain passed in the night and left a morning all sunshine and summer – silent in Santa Pau save birdsong. At the 100-year old alimentacio where I went in search of beans, I stood and waited my turn and tried to take it all in – a small space, by modern super market terms, high shelves with more storage reached by a ladder like an old-fashioned library. The shopkeeper had one or two of everything.

I couldn’t understand a word – in this part of Catalonya only Catalan is spoken – and that’s when smiles and nods and hand gestures become language. I wonder what they are talking about – but mostly just relish the differentness of such a familiar activity – finding groceries, planning dinner in this place with a real scale in use, bill toted up by pencil and paper. Each woman had a big basket into which she tucked slices of cheese or meat wrapped in brown paper.

No beans though, at least not packaged for tourists – so I bought Ratfaia Russet – and located fesols in a shop in the main square.

The Trail Boss Has a Birthday

By our second day, rhythm and familiarity made for even more enjoyable walking along the edges of cliffs with miniature villages and farms in the valley below.

Steep bits challenged, both elevation gain and loss led to accompanying stress on body parts. In our tattered copy of “A Journey to the Islands of Scotland” Samuel Johnson describes the ascents perfectly: “…an aclivity not dangerously steep but sufficiently laborious.” Same for the declivities. But we also traveled miles of country lanes through meadows and Robin Hood-worthy forest paths with soft leaves underfoot.

Walking through farms at siesta time, with maisas quiet and shuttered, cows chewed their cud and regarded us with both boredom and incredulity at such madness in the afternoon sun.

In spite of weary bodies our evening approaches always thrilled – not quite sure where we would stay or what the food would be like. But eager – and then always pleased by good food, hot showers, and cozy beds.

At the end of the second day, when our hostess Carmen warmly welcomed us to her beautifully remodeled 18th century farmhouse, I blurted out that today was the younger son’s birthday. (She had two hijos of her own.)

Her evening meal was Perfecto! – a beautiful salad with olives and apples, tomatoes and garden lettuce, pumpkin soup, a melt-in-your mouth tortilla de patatas – and exciting to me – fesols de Santa Pau – a local white bean of such renown in Spain they may be given a denominacio d’origen like wines to identify them.

Fried pork for the carnivores almost capped the meal, but then Carmen presented (with help from Miguel) a birthday cake ablaze with a big numeral three candle and three little ones. We shared it with Miguel and Carmen who offered the first taste of Ratafia Russet – the local liqueur made from alcohol, anise – “and many, many flowers.”

In these days, wine and desserts always accompanied meals – no doubt part of the happiness. And we were so companionable – so much laughing – and always the pleasure of walking. The hot sun rarely unwelcome, being sometimes interrupted by huge fat clouds drifting by – or shading trees. I loved seeing the young people up ahead – grateful for sharing daily life in such a setting.

Everyday Tacos – Carrots, Leeks, Tulips,too

Aah, the CSA is back! A brief hiatus in deliveries while winter ended and spring began (the farmer building and planting for a new season) led to a near breakdown in cooking here. Certainly led to a lack of inspiration.

I’ve become so gratefully accustomed to the regular routine of receiving what seems a gift box of food to organize meals. Without it, and always under the influence of trying to eat more locally, it’s been slim pickings. Those authors, like Barbara Kingsolver, who try to eat locally for a year, hit this low spot in April (as our ancestors did) – early for new crops and late for stored vegetables.

In the weeks without delivery, we’ve been reduced to a lot of everyday tacos – our staple, mostly pull-out-of-the-cupboard meal. It varies with what is to hand and includes the usual basics – beans, cheese, tortillas, lettuce – maybe frozen corn or peppers, leftover vegetables, salsa – an avocado from south of here, tomatoes in season. It’s a whatever, whenever sort of meal.

The blog’s bean project improved everyday tacos by leading to batch after batch of black beans (recipe compliments of Martha Stewart, of all people, sent by a friend and reader). It’s totally simple – an overnight soaking followed by cooking (sometimes for a very long, slow time) with quartered onions, smashed garlic, and a spoonful of vinegar (add jalapeno peppers if you want). The beans are such a treat – good that night and as leftovers – and it’s easy to freeze a batch for yet another night of everyday tacos.

I love and appreciate the localness of the food our farmer provides, but what I didn’t think about till this little break is how dependant I am on her energy, her stimulus to get me going, focus my meal thinking.

These first deliveries combine stored vegetables and brand new salad mix. They’ve contained leeks, potatoes, stir-fry greens, carrots (stored in the ground and sweet from winter frost) – and field-grown tulips. Often recipes the farmer provides catch my eye – like a recipe for Carrot-Leek Oven Pancake – not something I would have come up with on my own, but I’m eager to try.

I’m thinking the black beans would work with a carrot leek oven pancake.  With tulips on the table.

Four-Inch Beet, Five-Inch Pumpkin, and Beans

Nearly the same size, the beet and the pumpkin (last of their kind from the winter CSA) sit on the kitchen island, along with different sizes of white beans, soaking.

They seemed an unlikely group of foodstuffs for Sunday dinner, until I happened upon “The Complete Italian Vegetarian Cookbook” by Jack Bishop. Another Bishop book (“Vegetables Every Day”) is a frequent resource when uncertainly facing a vegetable, without method in mind.

But this book’s been neglected simply because it tips the wrong way on the bookshelf over the fridge. A tall book, I don’t notice its name or inviting cover photo. It’s been a while, because stuck in the pages is the newsletter from the Alaska CSA. Looking for something to do with the white beans, I pulled on its edge.

Ah, good move. The book, with pages of bean possibilities, came from my old friend. Though I live closer to her now, it’s still too far for that daily back and forth that nourishes friendships.

Over the years my friend and I made a lot of food together. In our own kitchens, each cooking our family’s dinner, phone tucked between shoulder and ear – and over campfires and tiny cooking stoves on shared family adventures. And we’ve exchanged cookbooks. Recipe books, gifts from her, include inscriptions in the front or on the pages of favorite recipes. This one notes that the best vegetables she ever ate were in Italy.

Cooks often make notes in books, enriching a gift book or recording an impression. Another friend and her husband note when a recipe was cooked and for whom. For a while, I commented on a series of earnest vegetarian soups like bean and barley, with equally earnest notes like “Cooked 1/15, very good!” (Later the cookbook, left open in one of those plastic holders, got a yellow sticky note from the amused house sitter: “Hot dogs and tater tots cooked by Doug 2/28.”)

Maybe cookbooks, like novels, you approach depending on where you are in life. You can outgrow them (those soups relied on some readymade spice mix) or reconnect happily with them (Bishop’s Italian vegetables). I enjoyed the memories, and appreciate the potential for more meals. Inspired, I aimed for “Cannellini Beans with Tomatoes, Sage and Garlic” for Sunday dinner.

But wanting to watch a movie, we just ate the beans simmered with onions, roasted the beets (in spite of the lackluster outside, red swirls enlivened the inside), and managed a batch of muffins from the tiny pumpkin’s yield. All very good!

A Different Focus

Apple bananas – the bananas you find in a tropical paradise, and that’s where we are as I write (but not as you read).

At first I thought to keep “her spirits rose…” honest, I needed to write about one place. I think I was wrong (this is a learning experience). Before we left on the trip, I wrote ahead some posts about February’s topics. Being here, I mostly observe how my focus fixes on the same things in a new setting.

Focus is challenging with family around. Or I suppose where you focus is the issue. Who could resist a day trip to a wild beach with the fully-grown surfer son and his sweet friend? Long ago, when he was a not even three-year old, we visited the same beach. In an old photo we’re dwarfed between cliffs at the edge of the sand and crashing breakers. Roles reversed now, I follow behind and put my feet in his big footprints in the sand. Awed by time’s changes and more than a little proud.

Food’s a focus, but like the apple bananas it’s different. From the farmers’ market we gathered avocados for a dollar(!), lettuce for salad, and beet greens to make (oh yes) that day-in day-out soup, even in paradise. We ate the beets, golden and pink pinwheel striped, one night with small white beans, dried ones cooked with onions and garlic. (The bean adventure been a worthy, portable focus). The next night the beans made a slimmed-down version of baked beans. There’s a make-do flavor to condo cooking – real cooks probably travel with tins of spices at the ready.

A long-hoarded lotus flower candle, I packed at the last minute, lights our table on warm dark nights. A meal cheered also by music from this land and cloth napkins from home – even when the dinner is happily pizza from a local parlor.

Maybe I just want to share the word pleasure of this place: papaya, palm – and puakinikini. New to me, this lei flower changes from white to orange but always possesses the fragrance of paradise.

When in Doubt Make Soup

In the on-going bean project, I made “White Bean Soup with Pasta and Rosemary Oil” – delicious. No need to soak beans and change water, but instructed by Deborah I covered the beans with hot water while organizing and chopping carrots and celery, parsley and rosemary. The results made me glad for days – sticking to my resolution glad and soup in the house glad.

I thought this post would be about change, since I am in the midst of a computer changeover and nervously awaiting word from the new one that the old one has transferred precious contents. I am so intimate with tech support now, I have the private line of a senior advisor. We’ve enjoyed a lot of quality time, but sometimes he doesn’t call when he says he will. Sad about this and about having to eat scrambled eggs for lunch, there is nothing to do but make soup.

The everyday soup isn’t so fine as soup made carefully from a recipe with special stock – but it is a staple of a good life. This day-in day-out soup is a variation of Deborah’s hearty lentil. The only constants are lentils, parsley, carrots, garlic, and some form of allium. This time I used leeks, but shallots or most usually onions fill the bill. (Sometimes Deborah might not recognize her soup, but I don’t think she’d mind.)

The strength of this sort of soup lies in its flexibility (a worthy attribute) and the easy availability of the ingredients. Lentils wait patiently in the drawer (Deborah suggests the little green French ones). Parsley often survives long into winter in the garden, winter-sweetened kale even longer. Carrots and celery are always on hold in the fridge, cans of tomatoes in the pantry. A divine attribute of such soup is the “tastes better the next day” phenomena. The soup reliably nurtures noon after noon, and dependably provides dinner in a pinch.

Sometimes I pile vegetables on the cutting board as an encouragement, a reminder of intent. (Flexible, reliable, divine, that reminds me of tech support, I better go check the computer’s progress). Then come back to chop, filling cutting boards with vegetables of orange and green, crying over onions, glad to get them sizzling. Eager to get to the simmer.

In a way I love it that our daily soup is different each time depending on the variables – an extra like turnip or rutabaga – or leftover cooked beans!

Black-eyed peas

Standing at my kitchen counter after putting black-eyed peas (good luck for the new year) to soak for a dinner with company – both a realization and a resolution formed.

By way of explaining what might be included here, black-eyed peas could stand for all the small things – butternut squash, frogs, sweet peas, and a walk in the woods – grace notes of any given month adding up to a cherished complexity.

It’s a relief to have the beans soaking in a pottery bowl. In the same way choosing the subject for a project energizes and organizes – directs energy to one spot (small black spots on small white beans in this case). Choice made – not pinto or turtle or black or great northern today – but black-eyed peas swelling in their changes of water, ready to be cooked with cloves and peppercorns and bay leaves (Mark Bittman advice).

Or they could be served plain and spare like January.

Beans seem heartily full of potential and miracle since they are seeds really. The leftovers will inspire soup.

William Blake wrote: “Labor well in the Minute Particulars: attend to the Little Ones.” Beans – all kinds of beans – that’s the resolution part – to cook more with real beans!