Once settled in a place with a kitchen, it hardly takes long for me to make a pot of beans. I like beans because they are meant to be shared, and they make me think of my homes: Nevada, where my Dad and I ate near-daily bean quesadillas for lunch, and New Mexico, where the beans flow at almost the same rate as the river that runs through her. As I spend more time in my new home of Almería, I've realized that despite the many similarities between this city and New Mexico, there is one important difference: there are few beans to be found here—and no spice. Perhaps I am too eager to draw comparisons between the Old and New World, but there's been a question floating around my brain: Why do Mexicans and New Mexicans love spicy food so much when Spaniards can barely tolerate paprika? Maybe each time a make a batch of beans, I'll be one step closer to answering this question.
In this noisy city, we sleep amidst the constant drone of cars, the 3 am street cleaners, and glass shattering as our neighbors dump their glass recycling into the receptacles outside our flat. Last night, while my beans were soaking, I dreamt of spice—canned chipotle peppers in adobo, green chile, and Cholula. This morning, I was grateful for the New Mexican red chile powder (carried all over Europe for the last month) that I added to my pinto beans. The beans turned out well, although not up to my usual standards, but I'm learning to work with what I have. Tonight, I write this with the pleasure of knowing that I have a pot of Home sitting in our fridge, just waiting to be loved again tomorrow.
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