best bean dish

I miss my accomplice. I miss my companion. I miss my partner.

I miss my human.

We walked to Dyafa after one of our fights once, and I had the best bean dish and a good-but-not-as-memorable lamb shank. That we always recovered even when it came to blows was one of the most reassuring things about us. That it always had to come to blows was, in hindsight, maybe its own problem. But I know I wouldn't fight if I didn't love him or care about us the way I did. These kinds of emotions get me into trouble a lot.

One day I came away with an assortment of beans from the farmer's market and couldn't stop thinking about the roasted tomato-y wax beans from Dyafa. It was the sauce that made it. They were seasonal and I couldn't figure out if I could find any clues from the menu anymore. I spent an easy evening cooking the handfuls of beans while my person was working by the dim living room light.

The flat green ones in my closest approximation to a roasted tomato-y Dyafa sauce.

The cranberry ones stewed in oxtail broth and thyme until they were sticky savory nuggets.

The yellow ones sauteed the way I usually always saute green beans - just barely burnt and with garlic and oyster sauce.

I remember sitting down next to him with my different bowls of beans. With the TV humming in the background and the dark already enclosing our apartment. I knew the feeling of loneliness in this way. I used to spend a lot of time like this. And when the grief would come rolling in, I'd never believe I could escape this kind of loneliness. But it was the two of us that time, and it felt good.

These kinds of emotions get me into trouble, but I thought I found someone who could take them in.