This recipe has been in my family since forever. It is a very popular dish for Georgian and Armenian people who absolutely loved their beans. My mother used to make it, but I put a little twist of my own to make it easier. Mom usually soaked dry beans overnight, then cooked them the next day. I use canned beans, and it tastes the same.
The Georgian recipe for mashed beans calls for the finely chopped walnuts. I add them on occasion.
You can eat this dish warm or cold, over bread or crackers like a pate, or just as a side dish.
MASHED BEANS
Open bean cans, wash the brine off, and soak in cold water for 10-15 min.
Dice onions fine. Pour oil into a medium-sized pot. When the oil shimmers add onion and sauté until they are slightly yellow and tender, but not caramelized.
Stir in beans. Cover the pan with a lid. Cook for 3-5 min on low to medium heat, stir occasionally. When beans are fully cooked, some will crack, remove pan from the heat. Mash beans with a potato or wire masher. The mixture should have some chunks, so be careful not over mash. Let beans cool for a few minutes, then add khmeli suneli, salt, and pepper.
Add parsley, cilantro, and walnuts if you’re using any of them.
*If you can’t find khmeli suneli then use this substitute:
A jaded CEO. A fiercely focused ballerina. A love that defies all society’s rules.
SoHo, 1962
JJ Morris, successful CEO, leads a secret double life, playing saxophone to his heart’s content in his hole-in-the-wall dive bar. Yet he can’t escape the feeling he’s slowly petrifying into just another jaded millionaire.
Then a gorgeous blonde steps into his bar and shakes up his world. Certain this fierce little swan of a woman is exactly what’s missing in his life, he maps out a plan to wed her by Christmas. With or without his snobby mother’s approval.
Most women would be thrilled to learn that the tall, handsome bar musician is, in fact, a wealthy prince charming. Verochka Osipoff is less than impressed. She’s focused on becoming a prima ballerina, and everything hinges on her next audition. She can’t afford distractions, especially a rich playboy slumming it in SoHo.
Yet the heat of their attraction melts Verochka’s heart like warm chocolate. But JJ’s world is a cold, glittering nest of vipers. And their venom could destroy their love song before the first movement ends.
EXCERPT
The sound of a
saxophone halted her steps. That deep, velvety voice grabbed her by her throat,
and refused to let go. Holding her breath, mesmerized, Verochka stopped, then pivoted. Where did it come from? Straining
her ears, she looked around, searching the almost empty street. Guided by her
hearing, she glanced at the closed doors on her right. The Broome Street Bar.
Inside, the sax murmured its enchanting tale, sad, and touching, and
heartbreaking.
Mon Dieu! What must one feel to play like that?
Verochka
closed her eyes
and swayed to the music. Her arms by their own volition lifted and moved in a lazy,
unhurried wave. She visualized the dance in her mind, something slow and
sensual. Strange, but she never paid attention to jazz before. Then again, she was
never partial to any music except classical.
To her there was nothing and no one
compared to Tchaikovsky. But the soulful notes of that sax fascinated her as
much as the famous opening theme from Swan Lake. When the sound trailed off,
she felt almost bereft. She craved to hear more. Will the musician play again?
Oh, she hopped so. She’d wait for it.
Outside?
On the sidewalk at almost ten at night?
Unwise, not to mention
quite dangerous. Granted, this spot in SoHo was not prone to crime. But still.
A young woman alone was bound to attract some attention. Verochka
looked at the closed door of the bar, biting her lip.
To go inside, or
continue on her way? The wisest thing to do, of course, was to turn around, and
go home, to her tiny apartment. It was late. She must rest before her wake-up
call at 5:30 AM. All morning classes of Madame Valeska started at precisely 6
AM, and God forbid if any of the dancers were late even by a minute. The wrath
of her teacher definitely equaled to her worldwide fame as a former principal dancer
of The Royal Ballet.
Tired after the long
day of classes and rehearsals, then cleaning the premises, Verochka barely kept upright. She hated her after- hours janitorial
obligations, but promise was a promise. And Verochka
Osipoff never broke her word.
No matter how spent
she was, each and every evening, after all the dancers went home, and the
school was closed, she headed to the closet for a broom and a bucket. At first,
she didn’t mind it at all. It was an arrangement made in heaven. An eighteen-year-old
orphan from France, determined to reach her dream, Verochka arrived at the doors of the famous New York ballet school
with nothing but fifty dollars to her name and a small satchel that belonged to
her father.
After her initial
shock faded, the formidable Madame Valeska, the owner of the school, ordered Verochka to change into her leotards,
and dance.
Her final verdict
delivered in a grumbling voice was like a heavenly music to Verochka’s ears.
“You have a potential,
Miss Osipoff. I’ll take a chance on you, and let you stay for a probationary
period of three months. After that, we’ll see.”
Verochka’s
elation was huge,
but temporary. The school was obscenely expensive. No way she was able to afford
the tuition. There was a stipend, but applying for it took only God knew how
long, with no guarantee that it will be granted in the end.
On top of it, she was
a foreigner, all alone in the strange country, and barely able to speak
English.
Madame Valeska, quickly
assessing the situation— more accurately, feeling sorry for her— offered Verochka a deal: the education in
exchange for cleaning services. A tiny room in the attic as a temporary place
to live was added to that offer. To Verochka,
it was like a Christmas gift she could never have dreamt about.
Overwhelmed, moved to
tears, Verochka grabbed the
opportunity with both hands. After a while, she got her stipend for the gifted
and unprivileged students, thanks to Madame Valeska’s help, and was able to
cover most of her tuition.
The convenience of
living on the premises saved her the expense of a rent, and occasional
participation in corps de ballet’s performances made everything else
manageable. She didn’t need a lot of food, as her extremely strict diet fell mostly
into yogurt and fruit category. As to clothes— she learned at her dancing parents
knee the skill to mend tears and repair pointe shoes.
Two years later, Verochka was still living in the attic,
and still mopped the floors, and cleaned the premises. But it didn’t matter. Her
main goal to become a prima ballerina of The Royal Ballet took the precedence
over everything else.
Ambitious? Maybe. But,
as her father always said, you must dream big. Otherwise, what was the point? So,
she dreamed big, and worked like a woman possessed in order to reach that
dream. She was content, and happy, and along the way, fell in love with New
York, her new home. Her only home. She learned English, and became quite fluent
in it, even though her accent stubbornly refused to be erased.
Of course, she missed
France, and Paris, and small street cafes, and long strolls along the Seine. Oh,
the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sprinkled with powdered sugar beignets!
Sometimes, she could smell them in her dreams.
But most of all, she
missed her parents. She was sure they were looking at her from heaven, smiling,
proud of her accomplishments.
Her occasional nostalgia
was usually sweet, and short, like a children’s lullaby.
But not tonight.
After finishing her
duties, Verochka was ambushed by a sadness
so huge, she almost doubled down with it. Suffocated in the large empty
building that housed the ballet school, she was lonely, isolated, until she
couldn’t bear another minute longer locked inside. Hence, her impromptu evening
walk that brought her in the middle of SoHo, to the Broome Street Bar.
The plaintive sounds
of sax reached her ears again.
Oh,
yeas, please.
Listening to those
seductive low rumbles, she wondered about the player.
Who was he? Or was it a
she? Why was that melody so sad, so sorrowful?
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