Black Beans and Rice

June 2038. My last day at Eldorado Prep. Twenty years, five months, and some days as the head coach. I walked the field by myself Thursday morning before anyone arrived — same as I've walked it the morning before every first day of camp, same route, same slow clockwise circuit from the south end zone around the track to the north and back. The grass was still damp. The bleachers were empty. I stopped at midfield and stood there for a few minutes and I said a few things out loud that weren't for anyone but Ruben and the field itself, and then I walked off and drove home.

There was a dinner Friday evening — the school arranged it, a room full of former players and staff and parents and coaches I've known and competed against. Speeches were made. A plaque was presented. I'm not going to say I handled the speeches without crying because that would be a lie. Rodriguez cried. Miller pretended not to and was absolutely crying. David Okafor said something about what it meant to learn from someone whose first concern was always the person, not the result, and I had to look at the ceiling for a while.

I came home to Lisa, who had made dinner — enchiladas, red, the kind I make after championships. She said: you've made this for everyone else for twenty years. Tonight someone makes it for you. I ate two plates and sat at the table after and thought about all the things I don't have to do anymore. All the things I get to choose instead. The kitchen was quiet. I was fifty-eight years old and I was not a head coach anymore and the world still made sense. It made a kind of sense it hadn't made in a long time.

Lisa made the enchiladas that night, but what I kept coming back to — what I’ve always come back to — was the black beans and rice on the side, the same simple pot she’d set next to every celebration meal we’d ever shared. There’s something about beans and rice that doesn’t ask anything of you: it’s just warm and honest and filling, the kind of food that makes sense when everything else is still settling. I’ve probably made this alongside a hundred team dinners over the years, but that Friday night, eating it in my own quiet kitchen at fifty-eight years old, it tasted different — lighter, maybe, or just more mine.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 25 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 cup long-grain white rice
2 cups low-sodium chicken broth (or water)
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 medium yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 can (15 oz) black beans, drained and rinsed
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon dried oregano
Salt and black pepper, to taste
Juice of 1/2 lime
2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, roughly chopped (optional)

Instructions

Cook the rice. Combine rice and broth in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, then reduce to low, cover, and simmer for 18–20 minutes until the liquid is absorbed and the rice is tender. Remove from heat and let sit, covered, for 5 minutes.
Sauté the aromatics. While the rice cooks, heat olive oil in a skillet over medium heat. Add the diced onion and cook for 4–5 minutes until softened and translucent. Add the garlic and cook for another 60 seconds, stirring frequently.
Season the beans. Add the drained black beans to the skillet along with cumin, smoked paprika, oregano, and a pinch of salt and pepper. Stir to combine and cook for 3–4 minutes until the beans are heated through and coated in the spices.
Finish with lime. Squeeze the lime juice over the beans and stir. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed.
Combine and serve. Fluff the rice with a fork and spoon the seasoned black beans over the top, or mix them together. Garnish with fresh cilantro if using. Serve immediately alongside your main dish.

Nutrition (per serving)

Black Beans and Rice — The Meal Lisa Made When It Was Finally My Turn