An Ode to Simple

I don’t consider myself to be overly attached to tokens of the past. Meaning, if my house were on fire, I’d try to grab only my children and husband and head out the door. Or window.

But I am strangely attached to a very simple meal that I learned to make a while ago. It has been a part of my life for 17 years. It makes me insanely content to eat it. Not overjoyed, not ecstatic, just utterly satisfied and pleased.

It’s hard to find that in a meal. Especially one that costs about $5.00 to make and can feed eight adults.

In 1994, when I was very low-paid research assistant in Washington, DC, fresh out of grad school, loaded with student debt, my then-roommate taught me how she made black beans and rice. It involved sautéing onions, adding a can of black beans, salt, pepper, chopped green peppers and tomatoes… all while a pot of white rice was cooking on another burner. When everything was done, she put some rice in a bowl, topped it with the bean mixture, and then topped that with a very healthy portion of shredded cheddar cheese.

It was divine. It was cheap. It was easy. It was my favorite.

My roommate went off to law school in 1995 (and got married in 1996, and she served black beans and rice at her wedding). I stayed in that apartment, and a new roommate moved in.

I made black beans and rice, only I sautéed the tomatoes with the onions. I added Cajun seasoning, ground cumin, cayenne, sometimes cinnamon. Drained the beans before adding them into the mix.

In 1998 I moved into my own apartment, and I kept making those black beans and rice, at least once a month. A friend, as a housewarming gift, gave me my first-ever piece of serious kitchen equipment: an All-Clad stainless steel 12” frying pan, specifically for my black beans and rice. I still use that pan.

I met my future husband and made him some black beans and rice. He liked it. He went off to Philadelphia to get an MBA, and made his own version, adding mushrooms and corn.

My parents came to visit me in DC in 1999. I made black beans and rice for them, adding in a bit more spice and spinach to the now standard beans, mushrooms, corn, tomatoes, and cheese set-up, and garnished with fresh cilantro on top. My dad said it was so nicely presented it should have been served at a restaurant.

Well, he is my dad. My mom suggested that I add tomato paste… I have to admit, I never know what to do with the leftover paste once you open that little can and use only a little bit. I didn't add it.

I got married in 2002 and moved to Pittsburgh, and made black beans and rice pretty regularly. (Now I use brown rice.)

We had children in 2005 and 2007. When they began to eat solid food, they loved black beans and rice. (Now they tend to be picky and only eat a little bit of it. They’ll come around again.) 

My mom is undergoing treatment for multiple myeloma. I saw her in September. I made black beans and rice. I forgot the tomato paste. She didn’t mind.

I've learned to make a variety of things since 1994. Some far more complicated, far tastier... but nothing beats this meal. It reminds me of friendship, and love, and growth. 

I'm so weird. Or maybe not. Make yourself a pot. You'll see.

"You've Got Spunk."

I have always wanted to have "spunk," just like Mary Richards on The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

I think I internalized too well, however, Mr. Grant's reaction to it. I tend to second-guess myself, largely internally, but often I apologize to people, worried I've given offense in a joke or a conversation. I'm told, repeatedly, that my apologies are unnecessary.

I want our daughter to have spunk. I never want her to think anybody hates it. I never want her to apologize for it.

Consider this. Last night our neighbors celebrated the Fourth of July with a little jazz concert performed by a very talented seventh-grade boy. The boy's father, every once in a while, enjoys a cigar--and last night, with everybody hanging out and in a celebratory mood, he lit one. Our daughter saw it and promptly called out a helpful reminder: "NO SMOKING!" and the poor guy retreated to a point nearly out of his own yard with his cigar. He came back up shortly though, to play drums with his son, and our girl called out, "Put that smoking thing away!" (He took it all in good stride... I think.)

Then, as the little concert began, our girl took it upon herself (and was encouraged by the seventh-grade performer) to dance along to the music, front and center. She had not an ounce of self-consciousness. I watched her with tremendous pride. I got the video recorder like any good and proud mom would.

But my inner "Mr. Grant" was nagging at me: "Had she been disrespectful to the cigar-lover? Is her dancing cute or is she appearing to be a show-off?"

Later I read a great profile of Sheryl Sandberg, COO of Facebook. She's a brilliant, accomplished person--she grew up in a nice family, got herself a stellar education, and her early career was nurtured by one of the best minds in the country. Her mentor, Lawrence Summers, said of her, “If I was making a mistake, she told me. She was totally loyal, but totally in my face.” Another colleague of hers said, “A key part of what Sheryl does in her life is helping people advance, to be seen and to be heard.”

I've got to do better at modeling what I hope for Melina. In the profile I read, Sandberg suggests that "women, unlike men, encountered tradeoffs between success and likability. The women had internalized self-doubt as a form of self-defense: people don’t like women who boast about their achievements. The solution, she began to think, lay with the women. She blamed them more for their insecurities than she blamed men for their insensitivity or their sexism."

Now, I don't find her reasoning to be absolutely sound (sexism remains a problem institutionally, at bare minimum!) but I do think she's hit on my big challenge with raising our daughter: I've got to stop listening to my inner Mr. Grant, and embrace and extoll the virtues of Mary's "spunk."

Sandberg offers some great advice that I plan to adapt to my own stage of life. As Ken Auletta, author of Sandberg's profile, summarizes:

1. Women need to “sit at the table.” She said that fifty-seven per cent of men entering the workforce negotiate their salaries, but that only seven per cent of women do likewise. (I promise to do this when I'm re-entering the full-time outside-the-home workforce.) 
2. At home, “make sure your partner is a real partner.” On average, she said, women do two-thirds of the housework and three-fourths of the child care. (As an at-home mom, our family's ratio is a bit of an outlier, but I'm pleased to admit I have a real and excellent partner.) 
3. “Don’t leave before you leave.” When a woman starts thinking of having children, “she doesn’t raise her hand anymore. . . . She starts leaning back.” In other words, if women don’t get the job they want before they take a break to have children, they often don’t come back. (Now, I took a break after I had my first child, and then we relocated, making a "come back" a little more challenging. But not impossible. One day in the near future, I'm going to make it after all.)