Salsa Bean Burgers

Calving in September is unusual. I had a heifer drop a healthy bull calf Wednesday morning at five — by the willow in the bottom, on her own, no help needed, the calf up on his feet within the hour and on the teat by sunup. She is a first-calf heifer who took the bull in November when she was supposed to take in May, and so we have a calf out of season, and he will be small going into winter, and I will probably wean him early and bring him into the calf shed in November to give him a chance. The plan is in my head. The execution will follow.

Patrick came down to see the calf Thursday morning. I drove him in the side-by-side to the willow. He sat in the passenger seat with his cane between his knees and watched the calf nurse and said nothing for a long time. Then he said, He looks alright. Then he said, Take him in early. Then he said nothing more. Two sentences of veterinary advice from a man who has watched calves for sixty-five years and who taught me the same lesson he was applying. I said, Yeah, Dad, I planned to. He nodded. We drove back. At the house he got out and stood for a moment looking at the porch and then walked up the steps without his cane, holding the railing, which he has not done in a month. Some mornings the body remembers itself. Some mornings the body refuses to remember. You take the mornings as they come.

Three farrier days this week. Long ones. The waiting list is growing again because I had not taken new clients during haying and now everyone is calling. I told three new clients I cannot get to them until late October. Two of them said they would wait. The third said he would call someone else and that is fine. I cannot be every horse's farrier and I am not interested in trying. I have my regulars. I have my schedule. I am turning down work. This is how careers stabilize. You learn what you do and you do it and you say no to the rest, and the saying no is the part that takes longer to learn than the doing. I am learning.

The Missoula brewery reading Friday. Three hours each way. I read for thirty minutes from the chapter on November cooking, took questions for thirty minutes, signed books for forty-five minutes, and was on the road home by ten. Forty-eight people in the room. The brewery owner was a guy named Mike who had read the book twice and who had set up a tasting menu of four small plates inspired by chapters in the book. The plates were good. The menu was generous. The crowd was attentive. I ate Patrick's share of attention because Patrick was not there, and because the people in the room cared about the work in a way that, on most days, makes me self-conscious and that, that night, made me grateful. I am learning to receive attention. I will always be bad at it. I am going to keep trying.

Drove home Friday night through pitch darkness on I-90 and got in at one in the morning and went to bed and slept until eight which is unusual for me and also the right thing to do. Saturday I cooked. A roast pork shoulder for Sunday — overnight cure, low and slow Sunday morning, eaten Sunday evening — and a pot of green chile stew, slow cooked, made from a calf I had taken to the locker in May and from poblanos from Mom's garden and from broth I had made from a deer head last fall. The stew is the stew. It is the stew Mom's mother made. The recipe is hers. I have changed nothing in it for ten years. Some recipes are correct and you leave them alone and you make them again and again until you die and then you teach them to whoever comes after you and they leave them alone too, ideally, and the recipe persists, and that is one of the small ways the dead stay alive — through the unchanged recipes of women who did not waste their lives writing books but who fed three generations who were the books, in their way.

Marcus made it thirty-five days. He came by Sunday evening for stew. He had a haircut. He looked, for the first time, healthy. I told him that. He said, I feel it. He said, I feel like the whole inside of me has been wrung out and is starting to fill with something that is not whiskey. I said, That is what is happening. He smiled. We ate stew. The fire helps. The stew helps. Marcus thirty-five days helps. The pork shoulder is on the smoker as I write this. The week ends well. They do not all end well. This one did.

The green chile stew was the stew — Mom’s mother’s recipe, unchanged, the kind of thing you do not mess with — but what I reach for when I want that same feeling on a weeknight, when the fire is going and someone like Marcus has made it thirty-five days and deserves a real plate of food, is something built on the same logic: beans, salsa, heat, and enough heft to mean something. These Salsa Bean Burgers are not the stew. Nothing is the stew. But they live in the same county, and they come together fast, and they have fed people at this table who needed feeding, which is the only requirement a recipe has to meet.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 15 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 can (15 oz) black beans, drained and rinsed
1/2 cup chunky salsa, plus more for serving
1/2 cup plain breadcrumbs
1 egg, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1 tablespoon olive oil
4 burger buns, toasted
Optional toppings: sliced avocado, shredded pepper jack cheese, sour cream, fresh cilantro, pickled jalapeños

Instructions

Mash the beans. In a large bowl, mash the drained black beans with a fork or potato masher until mostly smooth — leave some texture, you want a little chunk in the finished patty.
Build the mixture. Add the salsa, breadcrumbs, beaten egg, cumin, garlic powder, smoked paprika, salt, and pepper to the mashed beans. Stir until everything is evenly combined. The mixture should hold its shape when pressed — if it feels wet, add another tablespoon of breadcrumbs.
Form the patties. Divide the mixture into four equal portions. Press each into a patty about 3/4 inch thick. Set on a plate and let them rest for five minutes — this helps them hold together in the pan.
Cook the patties. Heat the olive oil in a cast iron skillet or heavy pan over medium heat. Cook the patties for 4 to 5 minutes per side without pressing down on them, until a firm crust forms on each side and they are heated through.
Toast the buns. While the patties finish cooking, toast the buns cut-side down in the same pan for 1 to 2 minutes until lightly golden.
Assemble and serve. Place each patty on a toasted bun. Spoon additional salsa over the top and finish with whatever toppings are on the table. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Salsa Bean Burgers — The Recipe That Carries Her Forward