Is bigger better? Surely not. But it's nice to eat from every end of the spectrum, from the petite kishu to the gargantuan gigante bean. Though there is something to be said for the sheer meaty size of them, these creamy white beans, also known as gigandes or hija, deliver a lot of sweet flavor. Runner beans of Mediterranean origin—probably Spanish or Greek—you’ll see these on meze or antipasto plates, often coated in a dark orange tomato sauce. In Spain, they are sometimes referred to as judías, a word that also means Jews, though I couldn't find any connection. (Speaking of which, did you see John Galliano's drunken, anti-Semitic rant? Wonder how long Natalie Portman's new Sofia Coppola-directed Dior spot will continue to run...) If you can’t find gigantes, you may substitute limas or any large white bean. Dried beans are a delicious source of fiber and protein at any time of year, since they are as appetizing eaten hot in a soup as they are served at room temp. But until fresh beans are coming off the vine (Happy March, by the way), the dried version can be the centerpiece of many a meal. I do enjoy them in broth, but I think my favorite way to eat beans is cooked until they are very soft and have absorbed all the liquid, drizzled with some spicy green olive oil and sprinkled with crunchy sea salt.
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As in, cold enough to freeze the balls off 'em. Love that British expression. Somehow a bit classier than the old witch's teat reference, still hanging on from the days of the Salem trials. My point being: it was damn cold today. We were out snow-shoeing in 13 degrees. I have a deep dread of slipping on the ice, but those metal teeth really do grip into even the slickest surfaces. Realized that the large and interesting tracks we had seen the other day and were sure were from a bear turned out to be our own. How embarrassing. Now I'm finally convinced that the bears are hibernating and so I can stop imagining Werner Herzog-worthy scenarios where one chases me into a snowdrift and mauls G who has run to my defense. Tromping on crusted snow, I could almost see the North Wind puffing out his cheeks and blowing an icy blast our way. It sent the delicate top layer of powder gusting through the air, like a frigid version of the apocalyptic ash that's always drifting down in Cormack McCarthy's brilliant The Road. (Read the book; skip the movie. Sorry, Viggo.)
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