Friday morning. The day of reckoning. I awoke determined and vaguely confident. Overnight, the beans, though still hard, had become tender and a little puffier. They glistened. And the soaking water had turned a beautiful winey pink. I decided to leave them in the soaking water for cooking. At the last second, I had a change of heart, threw out the liquid and started with fresh, covering them with 2 inches of cold tap water. At this point, I also threw in a dried bay leaf and a sprig of thyme. Covered loosely, brought it to the boil, let it roll for 2 minutes, then turned it down to simmer, a gentle bubble. Set my timer for 30 minutes (I knew from my research that these black beans would take at least an hour.)
My first inspection revealed brownish beans, still too hard to eat, but even more tender. The skin came right off to reveal a pure white specimen that resembeld a small, raw peanut. 30 minutes later, though still not finished, I had what was certain to become a potful of plump beauties. For another half-hour or so I hung around the pot like a nervous stage mother, lifting, looking, poking and prodding my little darlings, worrying that the point of perfection would elude me -- if I took them out too soon, they'd be al dente (not a good thing for beans); too late and they'd be a gluey mush.
Total cooking time took roughly 1 hour and 45 minutes. I poured the hot beans into a colander over my white enamel bowl to preserve the lovely, non-gelatinous cooking liquid. While cooling, I gazed and inspected. A gentle bite revealed a creamy texture and tenderness. And for the first time ever, I tasted the pure nutty beaniness of a freshly cooked, locally grown, dried black bean.
Wow. Whew. I did it!
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