Ah, the humble bean.
The subject of everyone’s favorite school playground song:

The ghost and I sang this so many times—often with accompanying sound effects—that it somehow evolved into a round, like Row, Row, Row Your Boat, interspersed with blowing raspberries at each other.

Some days, I don’t know if we’re six or sixty-ish years old.

But we do have a pact.

I promised not to tie him to the fence with jump ropes (like we did to the boys in my kindergarten class), and he promised not to aim at my head during dodgeball. Singing silly songs is acceptable and encouraged.
(He’s not much of a singer, though he does enjoy talk-singing a few favorite Iggy Pop stanzas now and then, when he’s feeling nostalgic.)

But I digress.

If you guessed something with beans, you’re correct.
If you guessed Black Bean Soup (Appetites, p. 47), you’re probably psychic.

This week’s hard-to-find ingredient: dry chorizo.
Not the soft, fresh stuff. I’m talking about the kind stuffed into a pork casing and hung up to air-cure for a month or two—probably somewhere in Spain.

I ordered mine from a company named after a South American river.

Anthony’s recipe calls for six links:

Here’s the problem: link size.

Most of what I could find online were 8-ounce links. That math would land us at three pounds of chorizo, which—even for us meat-lovers—was obviously unhinged.

So I just used my best judgment.

I bought one 8-ounce link, sliced enough so each of six servings got three garnish slices, and chopped the rest into the soup. It worked beautifully. No regrets. No chorizo hangover.

Black. Dried. From scratch.

I opted for the beans marketed as “planet-friendly,” even though they were more expensive. I hoped the eco-virtue might translate into a better-tasting bean than I usually encounter.

The beans? They weren’t bad.
But they’re not my favorite.

My heart belongs to cannellini beans—creamy in a way other beans only wish they were. And black beans can sometimes taste like the earth dirt they were grown in.

Great for tequila.
Not great for beans.

But, after their long, hot soak, they were glossy little beads of darkness, which felt promising.

Here’s what went in:

Everything simmered together (except the chorizo) until the beans were tender.

The recipe claims this takes 45 minutes.
That may be true…in New York.

In the high desert of Utah, where I live, it takes closer to 90 minutes—sometimes longer. Why?

Because science.

Water boils at a lower temperature at higher altitudes, so beans take their sweet time. I let the pot go for 90 minutes, and honestly, another 20–30 would’ve been ideal.

I should have added the extra time before unleashing the immersion blender. That usually fearless piece of equipment that can whip any ingredient into shape in a matter of seconds had to work really hard to get us to “mostly creamy.”

Then I stirred in the chopped chorizo and let everything come back to a gentle simmer.

Ladled into bowls, I topped the soup with:

As someone who would never order black bean soup in a restaurant, I was genuinely surprised by how good this was. Deep, rich, spicy but not spicy hot, comforting—and those chorizo chunks added exactly the chewy contrast the soup needed.

My nephew—hey, Bryan—sent me some hibiscus tea and the recipe for a fantastic mocktail:

The HCG (Hibiscus Cherry Ginger) Spritz

A really lovely riff on an agua fresca, and a perfect match for this soup.

It was nice to make something this week that didn’t fight back quite as hard as the Korean fried chicken did. I’m still feeling tender from that experience.

Give it a week or three and I’ll probably decide I need to master the deep fryer currently taunting me from a pantry shelf.

If that happens, the deep fryer may need to be tied to the fence with some jump ropes… so it knows who is boss.
(Loosely, of course. It’s just a game.)

In reverence, rebellion, and musical fruits
Michelle Davis
Your kitchen medium