I’ve had a container of gigantic dried fava beans sitting in my cupboard since my parents came to visit for graduation and bought me all kinds of exciting things at Sahadi’s. The beans are a soothing green color and could be mistaken for someone's river pebble collection, plus they make a nice clicking noise when you run them through your fingers. But these were not good enough reasons to keep them in their dried form forever, so yesterday I decided to attempt to cook them.
Dried fava beans are a staple food in Egypt (where they’re called something like fuul medames, though transliterations vary wildly), so I thought I’d try out an Egyptian recipe. I concluded from some internet research that most preparations involve soaking the beans, boiling them for several hours, and serving them gently mashed with olive oil, various aromatics, and sometimes some lemon juice. It all seemed fairly straightforward, so I decided to avoid following any specific instructions and simply play it by ear.
I may have overestimated my experience with cooking dried beans, or underestimated its importance. In the morning, I put the beans in a bowl of water to soak, and when I came home from work they were slightly larger, slightly flabbier, and much more intimidating. What were once innocent-looking pebbles now seemed like vestigial organs or ancient earlobes. And I realized wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them next. I decided to remove their outer shells, fearing that if I didn’t they would never soften. When that task was completed, I rinsed my pruny fingers, covered the white inner-beans with water, and set them on the stove to cook.
Maybe the heat was too high, or maybe I wasn’t supposed to shell them, but it only took a little over an hour for them to soften – I was expecting to wait two or three hours. As they simmered, the kitchen filled with a scent that reminded me of my dinner at grandmother’s house. I suddenly realized that fava beans, under the name “broad beans,” are also frequently used in the English stews she makes. It was strange to experience that familiar smell of British cooking – like steamy socks but somehow appetizing, I swear – while making something I thought was Egyptian.
After an hour, the favas had disintegrated into a starchy grayish mush, which I strained, and then stared at. Was it salvageable? It was close to tasteless on its own, and because of its appearance I was doubtful I could convince people to eat it. It may be packed with nutrients that have sustained the Egyptian civilization for centuries, but pure nutrition is not exactly the main concern of the American palate. I was worried I had wasted half a tub of fava beans, but I added the accoutrements I had in hope of resuscitating the dish: the juice of two lemons, several splashes of olive oil, some sautéed onions and garlic, and some crumbled feta cheese.
Somehow, miraculously, it became delicious. The olive oil smoothed out the texture and the sharpness of the lemon highlighted the subtle creamy flavor of the mashed fava, which I had failed to appreciate when I had tasted it by itself. The onions added depth to the dish, and basically made the whole thing more interesting. I served a warm bowl of the stuff with baked cumin tortilla chips, and it was happily consumed by three people in a matter of minutes.
I’m not sure what lesson I should take away from this particular experiment. Cooking is less of a rollercoaster when you’re willing to follow recipes? Or: just as important as staple foods are staple food improvers – add olive oil, lemon, and onions to anything and it will taste good. Probably both are valuable, but the second lesson seems to be a powerful principle in the kind of cooking that totally ignores the first.
