I had fava beans when Francesca and I went to Italy, and they were hearty and delicious, so when I was in the grocery store before Thanksgiving, I decided they would be my Recipe Ambition. The beans were large, hard, and an ugly green-brown, kept loose in a plastic container that had an opening on the bottom, which I had never used before. I got a plastic bag, put it under the opening, and released the lever, which was when a zillion beans poured into my bag, clattering like an organic jackpot.
It was way too many but I couldn’t figure out how to pour them back.
People were looking at me, and I felt stupid, so I got a twist tie, labeled the beans, and bought them. I had a recipe on how to make them, and they’re easy to make, but none of the recipes kick in until you get the bean out of the skin.
One recipe actually said, “It’s mainly because shelling fava beans can be such tedious work that making this soup becomes an act of love.”
Now you tell me?
Tedious doesn’t even begin to explain the process of shelling fava beans.
Tedious is foreplay.
Especially when you bought a zillion of them.
Only 52,095 more to go!
And you can’t begin to shell them until after you soak them overnight, and I even found a recipe that you have to soak them for six days.
This was more Italian than I can deal with.
So I soaked them for five hours, which was all the hours I had left in the day, and that barely loosened up the skin, so I had to start scraping with my fingernails, a paring knife, and at one point, a corkscrew.
I was trying to figure out the easiest way to do it.
Turns out the easiest way is not to bother.
But I was not about to be beaten by a bean.
So I turned on the football game and started shelling. I had shelled enough to make whatever I was going to make after about two hours, forty-five beans, and two bloody cuts.
I took the unshelled beans, put them in a Ziploc bag, and froze them, which means I will forget about them until next year.
And I went to the mall.
Our Ladies of Perpetual Motion
Lisa
I’m delighted to hear that Mother Teresa is going to be made a saint.
But I’m also surprised.
That she wasn’t already.
I mean, what does it take?
Before I begin, please understand that I’m not criticizing the Catholic Church. This is a humor column, and I’m Catholic myself. Of course it goes without saying that Mother Teresa is incredibly inspiring, but looked at another way, there’s nobody like Mother Teresa to make you feel inadequate, especially in the holiday season.
At this time of year, if you’re like me, you’re trying to do your actual job while you juggle shopping, wrapping, planning a big meal, and hoping to remember where you put the tree stand.
Nobody remembers where they put the tree stand.
The tree stand is the cell phone of the holiday season.
The only problem is, you can’t call it.
Worse yet is trying to find the tree skirt.
Yes, I own a tree skirt.
I don’t wear skirts anymore, but my tree does. When it starts to wear panty hose, we’re all in trouble.
But anyway, my point is that in the holiday season, I’m working at maximum capacity and still falling far short. For example, I’m writing this just a few days before Christmas, but I haven’t figured out what I’m going to make for dinner, so I haven’t gone food shopping, and I haven’t gotten a tree yet, so I’m guaranteed to end up with one that’s crappy and expensive, which reminds me of my second marriage.
But to get back to Mother Teresa, I can barely deal with the holiday season, and after all the gifts have been opened, the big meal eaten, and the dishes washed, I can tell you that I will feel like a saint.
Saint Lisa, Our Lady of Perpetual Motion.
I’m sure I’m not alone in this. If you are responsible for staging a holiday in your household, you probably feel like a saint, and in my view, you are one.
No matter what your religion.
Every woman can be a martyr.
It’s a God-given right, no matter which God you believe in.
So when I heard that Mother Teresa was finally about to attain sainthood, I started to look into what she had done to qualify. First, she was born in Macedonia, which is not near any mall that I know of.
So right there, if you ask me, she’s on the fast track to sainthood.
She became a nun at eighteen and traveled to India, where she was so moved by the poverty that she experienced what she termed “a call within the call.” She became “a free nun covered with the poverty of the cross,” so she gave up her nun’s habit and put on a white sari.
Any woman who wears white deserves sainthood.
In fact, Mother Teresa may be the only woman whoever looked thin in white.
Me, I never wear white.
In white, I look like a glacier.
Mother Teresa lived among the poor, caring for them, even begging for them.
You know me, and the only begging I’m doing is for Bradley Cooper.
Mother Teresa started the Missionaries of Charity, dedicated to caring for “the hungry, the naked, the homeless, the crippled, the blind, the lepers, all those people who feel unwanted, unloved, uncared for throughout society, people that have become a burden to the society and are shunned by everyone.”
Wow.
The only people I’m caring for this holiday season are the hungry.
And by that I mean Daughter Francesca and bestie Franca, who’ll be at my house for the holiday meal. And even at that, Francesca will help with the cooking and Franca will bring the dessert, because really, enough already.
As for lepers, I admit I’m avoiding them.
I need all my fingers.
For my rings.
Mother Teresa helped children trapped in war in Beirut, radiation victims at Chernobyl, and earthquake victims in Armenia.
Okay, but has she ever stood in line at Nordstrom’s, trying to get a box for a sale sweater?
Or on line at Starbucks, waiting for overpriced caffeine?
I have.
Where’s my medal?
Mother Teresa continued her good works despite two heart attacks, pneumonia, and malaria.
Sadly, I think I’m getting a cold.
For her decades of charitable work, Mother Teresa was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979.
But that still wasn’t enough for sainthood.
To qualify for sainthood, you have to perform not only one, but two miracles.
And toughest yet, you have to do them after you’re dead.
Look, I understand that we’re talking about sainthood here, but that’s not a standard that many women meet, especially not this woman.
I have only one miracle up my sleeve, and I will perform it on Christmas Day, when I make actual cranberry sauce from scratch, and don’t serve the canned kind with those ridges on the sides.
So while I am inspired by Mother Teresa, I’m not her.
And I’m wishing happy holidays to everyone, all of the ordinary people who perform ordinary miracles, every day.
You’re all saints to me.
New Year’s Meh
Francesca
I have about a month before I turn thirty, so I’m on the lookout for unwelcome signs of wisdom and maturity. What I noticed this week:
I’ve stopped caring about New Year’s Eve.
Not in a bah-humbug way, but it just doesn’t have the hold on me that it used to.