Infinite Ellipses of Ritual and Flavor
Text by Andrea Aliseda
Recipe by Teresa Finney
In Mexico alone, there are about 70 varieties of endemic edible beans. Unfortunately, only about five kinds make it to supermarket shelves. Photo by Shelley Pauls on Unsplash.
Beans used to be a binary of two, in my sheltered culinary world: black and pinto. Pintos were my favorite, still are, though my horizons have since broadened. They were the classic bean used in frijoles de la olla, the ones that we’d make at home and live the lives of a cat: nine.
Frijoles de la olla are amazing on their own. My mom flavored them with a glossy half cut raw white onion, garlic, wrinkled dried chiles and sap-green bay leaves––often starting a pot in an earth color, hand painted clay olla ornate with dotted flowers and leaves in colors of green, brown and eggshell. When I was in high school, she had the habit of leaving them for me to finish when I’d get home as she’d dash off to work or run errands, like sowing seeds and leaving me to tend to their harvest.
Once the pot steamed to completion, the beans plump and brothy, my siblings and I would eagerly suffocate bowls of beans in fist-fulls of shredded mozzarella or Monterey jack cheese, sometimes dusting with parmesan instead, and scooping in dollops of sour cream like dairy-possessed lunatics. And though frijol de la olla is great in a triad platter of rice and either mushroom, veggie or, back in my pre-vegetarian/vegan days, meat, or refried, or puréed, my siblings and I would often rabidly tackle that pot of beans on its own by the bowl, out of the sheer pleasure the smooth beans de la olla would bring.
Beans have been an emblem for Mexicanness before Mexico existed. They form part of the milpa agricultural system innovated by pre-hispanic Indigenous peoples that has been in practice for more than 5,000 years. It’s a system of maíz, squash, beans at its core, and can also include chiles, tomatoes and herbs (quelites). These foods grow together with such harmony, all benefiting from one another to reach optimal harvest.
In a piece titled “La Milpa, El Generoso Microcosmos Que Sostiene a México” (the milpa: a generous microcosm that sustains Mexico), Mas de MX writes that the maíz stalk, which can grow up to about nine feet, gives the viney beans a framework to grow upon, wrapping itself up the stalk in an embrace. This is a reciprocal relationship, they explain, as the nitrogen of the beans provides a critical nutrient to the maíz. Even in meals, beans and nixtamalized maíz form a complimentary union, together creating a complete protein, consisting of the complete nine amino acids necessary for human sustenance. The squash, or pumpkin, remains grounded creating optimal humidity for the soil and shelter from the elements for other growth and insects.
It’s worthwhile to note that the milpa harvests year-round, even if it's not always at the same time, and protects regional biodiversity.
Beans are each a jewel in their own right, a symbol of sacred tradition, a door swung wide open with infinite possibilities. Photo by P.O.sitive Negative on Unsplash.
In Mexico alone, there are about 70 varieties of endemic edible beans. These include the vivacious violet-hued ayocote morado from San Juan Tehuistitlán that's sweet and creamy, or Vaquita beans, which reign from the regions of Tlalamac, Tlayacapan and Morelos and are known for their artful cow print (like the name suggests) and make for rich tender stews. I first had a taste of the Vaquita beans packaged in the highly coveted and mindfully produced Rancho Gordo bean bags.
Even with such a rich spectrum of beans in Mexico, unfortunately, only about five kinds make it to supermarket shelves. Which explains why my appetite was finitely colored by earthy freckled pinto and luxurious onyx black, almost exclusively. Two beans I devour with utmost joy and nostalgic pleasure, reveling in their body of flavor; but now I treat myself to varieties I wasn’t wise to before.
In my kitchen, I cut open my bags of dried beans––keen on selecting varieties I haven’t tried before––and pour them into a mixing bowl. These days, there’s a ritual to my bean making. An expression of self-care for the person I will be in the next 24 hours to come. Or three, depending on the freshness of the beans. I gently sift through them with my fingers, eyes keen on rocks. If they’re particularly dusty from the earth that bore them, I’ll use a strainer. I let the beans sit in a pool of cool water, I forget about them. I submerge myself in washing dishes, in work, in my dogs, in life with my partner. When I come back to them, they’ve swollen twice their size––pregnant with moisture.
Sometimes, I resort to my mom’s memorized formula, and other times, I’ll riff off the mood and what I have on-hand. But as a special treat, sometimes these legumes become windows to other cultures, and I try my hand at dishes like Brazilian feijoada and New Orleans red beans.
Beans are each a jewel in their own right, a symbol of sacred tradition, a door swung wide open with infinite possibilities. Jewels that risk extinction due to a lack of demand, as Ana Paula Tovar reported for Munchies. And the way to protect them is in reveling in bean diversity by the mouthful. Whole, de la olla, to experience their texture, how the skin slips off its soft oval meat, the flavorful broth it releases soothing the soul in rich layered tones that reveal its essence. Or in its myriad other reprises, stretching their ellipses through the infinite of one’s culinary imagination.
Pintos a la Chipotle Tomato
Making a pot of beans every week, usually on Sunday, can be a ritual. Sweating the onions, garlic and chipotles in a bit of butter and olive oil as the base flavor layer can be an offering to the altar of beans. The center of my culture, beans are much more than a mere side dish—they don’t have to be an afterthought.
There are countless avenues to flavoring a pot of beans; this one, with the addition of chipotle peppers in adobo sauce and a bit of tomato paste, will lead the beans to a slightly spicy, slightly smoky place rendering them hearty and flavorful enough to be the star of the plate. Reduce or up the amount of chipotles to suit your preference. Drizzling in a little additional olive oil to the vegetable stock will give you a very luscious, delicious pot liquor, or broth. Omit the butter if you’re not wanting to cook with animal products and replace with your favorite alternative fat.
I like serving these beans in a big bowl with cotija sprinkled on top and a hunk of crusty bread for dunking into the spicy tomato-y broth, or with charred corn tortillas for scooping. Add a fried egg on top of the beans for a protein-heavy breakfast.
1 cup dried navy or pinto beans
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 small yellow onion, diced
4 garlic cloves, smashed and peeled
1 bay leaf
Salt and black pepper, to taste
2-3 chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, diced
1 tablespoon tomato paste
3-4 cups vegetable stock or water (enough to cover beans by about 2 inches)
½ teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon Mexican oregano
To make the beans:
Soak your beans in three cups of cold water anywhere from 6 hours to overnight.
Once they are done soaking, drain the beans, rinse under cold water and set aside.
In a 3-quart pot set over medium-high heat, add the butter and 1 tablespoon olive oil, or 2 tablespoons of your preferred fat. Once the butter is mostly melted, add the diced onion, whole smashed garlic cloves and bay leaf. Season with salt and black pepper. Cook until the onions are softened and starting to brown, about 5-7 minutes.
Next, drop in the diced chipotles in adobo, stir everything to combine and let the chipotles cook down a bit, about 3-4 minutes.
Squeeze tomato paste into the pot now and stir to coat the aromatics. Let the tomato paste cook just for an additional minute or so.
To the saucepan now add your rinsed and drained beans and stir. Cover beans with the vegetable stock or water, sprinkle in the ground cumin and Mexican oregano and drizzle in some additional olive oil, about 2 tablespoons. Give everything a quick stir.
Bring the beans to a boil, then reduce heat to low. Cover the pot and let simmer anywhere from 1½ - 2½ hours, stirring occasionally. Check beans and salt level after 1½ hours or so. You may need to add more water or stock to the pot as the beans simmer and the liquids reduce—you want to cover the beans just barely with liquid, but enough of it so the beans don’t stick to the bottom of the pot.
The beans are done when their skins have begun to peel and wrinkle a bit, and are soft to the touch. Taste a bean or two to check for doneness as well as salt level. Adjust salt and seasonings if necessary.
Makes about 3 cups.
Andrea Aliseda (she/her) is a Mexican-American writer and vegan recipe developer with a passion for storytelling, based in Los Angeles. Her “genius” Salsa Guille, originally published in Epicurious, was featured on Food52’s Genius Recipes, and newsletter of essays was “recommended reading” in the SF Chronicle. Find her published work in Epicurious, Refinery29, Food Network, L.A. Taco and more. Find her on Instagram at @andrea__aliseda and Twitter at @alisedaandrea.
Teresa Finney is a recipe writer and baker. Originally from the Bay Area, CA, she now lives in Atlanta, GA, where she runs the pan dulce pop up At Heart Pananderia.
Subscribe to her Patreon for more recipes.
