White Bean Soup

On the farm the chickens in the coop began to stir at four in the afternoon. The fields had become a checkerboard of sunshine and shaking crops.  Avocados seemed to ripen a golden green as if upon the demand of touch.  Grandfather left the door open so that the sun might gather and enter.  "Cook from morning until night on sunny days," he would say. "Each must be celebrated."  Fortunately the sun shone most of the year around in these great hill valleys.  It was said that this farm was blessed by the memories of Provence.  This day he had set aside a small station next to the stove for me.  Sister Elizabeth would come down later and ask, when the time had past, if she could help.  "Now, to handle a fine Roma, first, you must roll it around in the palm of your hand to feel if it has proper ripeness."

"Don't worry about the chickens, their eggs are most delicious when they stay a bit hungry." He reached over his chef hat, which flopped backwards and sagged like poorly constructed dough.  "De-seeding is nothing if it isn't fun, each a small adventure, you see; take time to cut out each core and then I want you to cut a small X across the end."  He shuffled the handle of the boiling water gently.  The sunshine coming in through the window caught an inner crescent of the pan.

"Dip the tomato into the boiling water with a slotted spoon for the count of 30, then as quickly let it sit in this bowl of ice water.  You will be able to see the sides begin to peel.  Take them off, but save them.  Maybe we will feed them to the chickens later, if they are lucky."  His was an ongoing battle with poultry.  So cute, he would say, and tasty, but a curse upon the farmer, always attracting trouble from the neighborhood. I had been cooking now since I was four and a half years old.  It was said that the wishes of grandmother had fallen on me when I was born.  She did not make the great flight to the states in the early 40's, but remained in her tiny French countryside village outside of Toulouse.  She

swore that she would defend her kitchen garden against the comings and goings of the German army with every spade and hoe she owned.  Grandfather was a wanted man and had to flee the country.  The regime had sited him as an insurrectionist because his cooking had become such an agent of gathering that his skills in the kitchen were mistaken for political.  Grandmother sent with her only daughter, Talese, three heirloom tomato seeds in a small pot covered in cheesecloth with instructions to keep them alive and thereby remember her French origin by tending to the vines as if a family
tree....