I got back from Russia two weeks ago on the nose, which is to say I
should have stopped by to say hello sooner than this. But I couldn't.
I'd sit down ready to write and I'd fall short, for I didn't see how to
mince my rib-poking post-trip melancholia that left me in a shambles and
rendered me tearful, speechless and inadequate for a good two weeks and
then some more into paragraphs, sentences, words...
That time with my parents, so long planned, so long awaited,
couldn't have raced past any faster. I'm glad I chose early May as the
time for my visit. It felt like summer, hot and scorching. I don't
remember it being so years ago; back then when late spring was still a
jacket season. Despite my parents' precautions that I take light,
short-sleeved clothes, no need for a coat, do you hear me? It is hot here, I did what I usually do -- the opposite. For one, I really didn't believe the heat would be that lasting (It is hot my foot!);
and two, my residing in Amsterdam for as along as almost four years now
taught me that local springs/summers are not very often in sync with my
expectations of them, which is why I don't own that many sheer summer
outfits. But man oh man, was it heavily hot indeed. At times it felt I,
dressed in jeans and woolen (!) pull-over, could easily melt into
asphalt leaving behind not as much as a pool of sweat (not even shoes)
or better yet, evaporate into thick, hot, fumy afternoon air with a dull
whoosh. But when the sun would hide behind the horizon and the
air would get saturated with the night's ink and the sweet floral smell
of that lone acacia tree out there below the windows (oh southern
nights!), it couldn't get any more comfortable. Still warm, but not
stuffy, there wasn't a night when I'd reach for a sheet, let alone a
blanket. In the weather like that, local short and bumpy cucumbers and
crunchy deep-pink radishes popped up at the markets in spades, and I ate
tons of them, plain out of hand, or thinly slivered, salted and bedded
on a slice of dark coriander seeds-encrusted rye bread.
It was a blast waking up to seeing my parents every day, sharing
with them copious amounts of brewed-right-in-a-mug coffee, grounds and
all (a Soviet rudiment), hearing my father's rattled opinions about
Russian politics, staying up late with my mother watching silly TV
series and movies. It was a blast, too, seeing my grandparents. They
looked more stooped, more...aged. One of my grandmothers, who had been
in the hospital throughout my stay, shrank like a wizened fruit. I
wasn't prepared to see her so battered. My grandfather had had surgery
before my arrival, and he didn't shine with much health either. As I
was saying good-byes to all my three grandparents, I caught myself
thinking that it could be the last time that I see at least one of them.
It gave me the creeps.
When Mom and Dad hugged me good-bye at the airport, amidst the
cold-voiced departures announcements, they cried. As did I, but not only
because of the farewell blues and my already missing them, the feeling
that grew stronger with my every step away. I sobbed because of the
chest-hurting remorse for wishing sometimes to get out sooner, to be
finally back in Amsterdam again, wishing those two weeks go faster as
much as I wished them to stay still. I kept sobbing once I'd flown back,
too, for I couldn't help but longing so badly to return where I've
just come from. Longing to be where I'm not, always.
I haven't cooked that much yet after my return, but there's been one
dish that already found home on my plate a few times by now. I find it
quite lovely and comforting, and hope you will, too.
White Beans with Dried Mushrooms
Adapted from Saveur, May 2012
Yield: 6-8 servings
No major deviations from the original recipe, except maybe that I use
canned beans in place of their dried brethren, which is for no reason
other than my impatience with this overnight soaking business.
This bean stew, it is no big deal. It tastes like a sum of all its few
flavorful components -- dried porcini mushrooms, tomatoes, cannellini
beans -- coaxed by heat into bright, luscious oneness. Nothing effete,
nothing fussy.
15 g (1/2 oz.) dried porcini mushrooms
2-3 Tbsp olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped
4 garlic cloves, finely chopped
3 Tbsp tomato paste
3 * 400 g (15 oz.) cans white beans (e.g., cannellini, butter beans, or lima beans), rinsed
1 * 400 g (15 oz.) can whole peeled tomatoes in juice, slightly crushed
500 ml (2 cups) vegetable stock or water
2 bay leaves
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Fresh herbs for garnish (optional)
1. In a bowl, soak the mushrooms in 1 L (4 cups) boiling water, about 20
minutes. With a slotted spoon, remove the mushrooms to a cutting board;
chop finely. Slowly pour the soaking liquid into a large measuring
vessel until you have 750 ml (3 cups), taking extra care to leave any
sediment in the bottom of the bowl; chuck away the sediment. Set the
soaking liquid along with the mushrooms aside.
2. Over medium flame, heat the oil in a large heavy-bottomed pot. Add
the onion and garlic and cook, stirring frequently, until fragrant,
about 4 minutes. Dump in the tomato paste, and keep cooking for another 2
minutes. Add the mushrooms, soaking liquid, beans, tomatoes, vegetable
stock, and bay leaves; bring to a gentle boil. Scale the heat down to
medium-low, and cook, partially covered and stirring occasionally, for
30-50 minutes, or until the beans are very tender and the cooking
liquids get thicker. Season with salt and pepper, to taste. Sprinkle
with some fresh herbs (the choice is yours; I went with fresh basil)
before serving, but that is optional.
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