Fav-ulous, Just Fav-ulous here in our Bordeaux Kitchen

We’ve just begun our last week here, and while my blues haven’t left me completely, they have abated sufficiently that I know Pater and I can make the most of our remaining days in Bordeaux.  — Thank you so much foryour thoughtful responses to my last post.  Thanks also to my friend Lisa at Amid Privilege for mentioning that post (and the reader support it elicited) in her Saturday Morning post about the value of real, sincere, meaningful praise (however hard we find that to accept).

Because you’ve all been so kind and supportive and wise, I thought I’d share a favourite non-recipe for a meal that’s been sustaining us regularly here in our (temporary) Bordeaux kitchen.  I don’t imagine fava beans will be showing up at the market when we get back to Vancouver next week — if I remember correctly, we won’t see them until at least July, and your markets might be the same (or you’re in another hemisphere where gardens are sleeping for the season).  In which case, we’ve substituted other fresh beans and we’ve also been known to drain a can or two of cannelini beans — it’s a very forgiving non-recipe.

Quick disclaimer: If you’ve been reading here for years, you’ll have read other posts about preparing fava beans. Here, for example, and here. The (non) recipes offered in those earlier posts are different, and there are photographs of the process. But yes, I’m repeating myself — seems inevitable as I come to the end of my eleventh year blogging. 

So then, if you’re lucky enough to have fava beans — we’ve been buying them at all the markets, Marché des Capucins, Marché des Quais, Marché Saint Seurin, Marché de Créon — start with a good kilogram of them and first, open the pods to nudge the beans into a bowl. Your pile of empty shells will comprise far more biomass than the surprisingly small accumulation of green beans, and you may wonder if you paid too much for compost.  . . But you might also notice how connected you feel with your senses — that particularly verdant, slightly musky fragrance of beans; the satisfying kinetic sensation of unzipping the pod along its seam;  your finger pad brushing the velvet lining of the pod’s interior as you scoop the beans out.

Sometimes, those of us who prepare food complain that it takes so long to prepare and is consumed so quickly. But in the case of fava beans (as with shelling fresh-from-the-garden peas), I find the process of preparing them to be a satisfying consumption of its own, almost a pre-tasting.

Okay, enough kitchen philosophy. Next stage is to bring a pot of salted water to a boil (“salty as the ocean” was the lyrical instruction I once read regarding bean-cooking). Enough water that they’ll be able to roll around a bit, but not so much that it will take forever to boil. Once the water’s at a good boil, dump the beans into it and wait for the water to boil again, a rolling boil with all the beans bouncing ’round on the surface. As soon as that’s happening, drain them and then plunge them into a bowl you’ve already filled with cold water (ice water’s even better).  Note: I used to boil the beans a handful at a time, according to instructions I’d read which told me to wait for the beans to come to the surface, then scoop them out into that cold-water bath, and add another handful to the boiling water.  Lately, I haven’t been taking those steps, and honestly, I haven’t noticed any under- or over-cooked beans.

If the fava beans you’ve been lucky enough to acquire are really young, you might be able to get away without the next step — for the first few weeks here, we were leaving the skin on most of the smaller beans. They’re getting much heftier now, though, and the skin is thicker, more fibrous. So the next step, once the beans are cool, is to gently squeeze the skin off each bean.  The first reward for this extra labour? The sweetest green you’ll ever eat, seriously! Plus more fodder for your compost bin — next year’s humous, if you’re a gardener. . .

Finally, now that you have your (shockingly small, it’s true) bowl of shiny green half-moons,  you can toss them in a salad bowl with a chopped tomato, a cup of chopped cucumber, 1/2 a sweet onion, diced, and a chopped avocado. Pater adds olive oil, salt & pepper to taste, and the juice of half a lemon. But you will adjust to taste, of course. And perhaps report back any recommended improvements. We’ve been known to add fresh chopped mint, and I’m thinking one of these days I’ll probably add a cup of cooked couscous. . . or quinoa. . . . And hmmmm, what about adding a few artichoke hearts, quartered?

Let me know what you think, would you? We’re going to brave the heat (a predicted 32 Celsius today, a titch cooler than yesterday, and far too warm for me) and the crowds (everyone’s come to Bordeaux for le pont  (the long weekend built on Ascension Thursday, apparently) to stroll through the market by the Garonne again. Given that we only have a week left here, I’m going to be very careful around the cheeses — still haven’t finished last week’s purchases. . .

à plus tard,

xo,

f