• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until browned.

SERVES 6. Serving size: 2 tablespoons.

Some hosts serve this as a side dish with roasted fresh ham or roasted pork.

Aunt Tee (T for Teresa) was known to be an excellent and generous cook who liked a glass of whiskey from time to time. She used a ploy that rarely failed because she didn’t use it too often.

She told me she would cut up an onion and two cloves of garlic and put them in water to boil. When one of her friends came by, she would open the kitchen door and let the aroma invade the living room. The visitor would ask, “What are you cooking, Tee?” Her answer would be “A little bit of this and a little bit of that. But, you know, I am fresh out of bourbon.”

That would be the cue for the man to say “I’ll go get a pint.”

In his absence, Aunt Tee would turn off the pot and close the door. She would bring glasses and ice with her to the cocktail table. The visitor, whose tongue would be dripping at the prospect of a “Teresa meal,” would be told, “That pot in there”—pointing to the kitchen—“is preparation for something I am cooking tomorrow.”

People in the family laughed at that story for generations. But I did learn that if I was lonely, or had been away from my home for two or three weeks, my house needed the fix of some aromatic promises coming from my kitchen.

I have gone to the stove, without expecting any visitors, and needing no one to bring me whiskey, and whipped up a beef bourguignonne, chicken and dumplings, or just bacon and eggs.

A lonely house—cold and unfriendly, not necessarily in temperature, but in aloofness—is a place offering scant welcome even to its owner.

The kitchen, which may be floor-licking clean, does not promise the passerby delicious concoctions.

When I return home after being away, I follow an unchanging routine that warms my house and makes it happy to have me back. I open the front door, put my luggage down inside, and immediately go to the kitchen. I take an onion and a potato from the pantry. I wash the potato, and peel and slice each vegetable. I put a heavy-bottomed skillet on the stove with one tablespoon vegetable oil and turn the fire to a medium heat. As it heats, I add the sliced vegetables. I don’t want to fry them, so I turn down the heat. I add one clove of minced garlic, a package of frozen mixed vegetables, two bay leaves, and two cups of beef stock. I cover the skillet and turn the fire to its lowest number.

Then I take the luggage to the bedroom and leave the door open. As the aromas begin to reach down the hall, I can almost hear the walls and floorboards and carpet hum in preparation for singing a Welcome Home composition.

In the kitchen I remove the cover and let the warm aromatic steam gush forth, moistening my face, neck, and arms. When I have dried myself, I look around. My house is mine again. It is no longer angry with me for leaving it so long, alone so long. I never know exactly what I shall do with the skillet of vegetables, whether it will become a soup, a stew, or just pureed stock for future use.

All I know is my house has forgiven me and taken me safely back into its loving care.

Try this ploy: Whenever the house resists you, the kitchen can be made into your ally. Start there first, and start with soup.

Black Bean Soup

1 pound dried black beans

3 quarts chicken stock (or vegetable stock if preferred, or water)

1½ medium onions, chopped

1 garlic clove, chopped

1 ham hock (optional)

¼ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon pepper

One 8-ounce container sour cream

Examine the beans, removing any debris, then wash. Soak overnight in cold water to cover.

Drain the beans. In a soup kettle or pot put 1 quart of stock, the beans, onions, garlic, ham hock if desired, salt, and pepper.

Bring to a boil, then turn the heat down and simmer for about 2 hours, until the beans are very soft and the ham hock, if using, is tender.

Remove the skin and bones from the ham hock and place the hock in a blender with 2 to 3 cups of beans. Blend until