Slow-Cooker Green Beans

Thanksgiving. Twenty-two weeks pregnant, a belly that is now undeniable, a baby who kicks during grace and settles during pie. The fullest table we have ever had.

Bellevue. David and Karen's house. Karen made pies — apple and pecan, with Rosa's help and David's coaching. David cooked the prime rib. Kevin and Lisa drove up from Portland. Ming and Wei flew in from San Jose (their second trip in two months; Ming is now operating on a "the baby needs me" schedule that supersedes airline pricing). James made his scallion pancakes and a Taiwanese three-cup chicken. I made japchae and bulgogi and kimchi from Jisoo's last batch. The table held Korean food and Taiwanese food and American food and the boundaries between them blurred the way they always blur in my family, which is a family that was built from parts, assembled from different countries and different kitchens, and holds together because the food holds it together.

Jisoo FaceTimed at 3 PM. She was wearing a new sweater. Jun-ho waved from behind her. She looked at the table on the screen and said, "I see my kimchi." I turned the phone to show her the kimchi dish. She smiled. She said, "It looks correct." From Jisoo, "correct" is the same as "I love you." She and Karen waved at each other through the screen. Karen said, "Jisoo. Happy Thanksgiving." Jisoo said, in English, "Happy Thanksgiving, Karen. Thank you." The exchange was brief. Ten words between two mothers, separated by an ocean, connected by a woman sitting between two cuisines at a table in Bellevue, pregnant with the next generation of this impossible family.

After dinner, Kevin pulled me aside on the back porch. It was cold. We could see our breath. He said, "Steph. This is the best Thanksgiving we've ever had." I said, "I think so too." He said, "Do you remember Thanksgiving when we were twelve and ten? When I threw mashed potatoes at you?" I said, "You threw mashed potatoes at the wall. I was collateral." He said, "Same thing." We laughed. He said, "We turned out okay, Steph." He says this sometimes — "we turned out okay" — like a mantra, like a prayer, like a thing he needs to say out loud to believe. I always confirm it: "We turned out okay." Because we did. Against odds, against the statistics on transracial adoptees and adoptees with addiction and adoptees with identity crises. We turned out okay. We are standing on a porch in Bellevue, adults with lives and partners and futures, and we turned out okay, and the baby inside me will be even more okay because she will never have to search for herself the way we did.

David made a toast. He stood at the head of the table with a glass of sparkling cider (Karen can't drink with her medication) and said, "To the new one. To the baby. To our granddaughter. We don't know her name yet but we know she's coming and we know she's loved and we know this family — this whole, big, strange family — is ready for her." Karen cried. I cried. Ming cried. Kevin did not cry but his jaw was set in the way that means he is trying very hard not to cry. James squeezed my hand under the table. The baby kicked. The baby kicked during the toast, as if to say: I hear you. I'm here. I'm coming.

The recipe this week is the Thanksgiving table itself — not a single dish but the combination, the way Korean bulgogi sits next to American prime rib sits next to Taiwanese three-cup chicken and nobody thinks this is strange because in this family it isn't strange, it's just dinner. The recipe is: invite everyone. Cook everything. Put it on the table. Let the boundaries blur. Let the food hold the people. Let the people hold each other. Eat. Give thanks. Mean it.

Every feast needs an anchor — something steady and unfussy that holds space while the more ambitious dishes take their bows. At our Thanksgiving table this year, surrounded by bulgogi and three-cup chicken and prime rib and kimchi, the slow-cooker green beans were exactly that: a quiet constant, a thing that asked nothing of the oven and nothing of the cook, that simply simmered away while the rest of us cried during toasts and laughed on back porches and waved at mothers through phone screens across oceans. If you are cooking for a full house, or hoping to become one, make these. Set them. Forget them. They’ll be ready when everyone is.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 4 hrs | Total Time: 4 hrs 10 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

2 lbs fresh green beans, trimmed and snapped
4 slices thick-cut bacon, chopped
1 medium yellow onion, thinly sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup chicken broth
2 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (optional)
1/2 teaspoon onion powder

Instructions

Cook the bacon. In a skillet over medium heat, cook the chopped bacon until just beginning to crisp, about 4–5 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon and set aside, leaving about 1 tablespoon of drippings in the pan.
Soften the aromatics. In the same skillet, add the sliced onion and cook over medium heat until softened and translucent, about 3 minutes. Add the minced garlic and cook 1 minute more.
Layer the slow cooker. Place the trimmed green beans in the bottom of a 6-quart slow cooker. Scatter the cooked bacon, onion, and garlic over the top. Dot with the butter pieces.
Season and add liquid. Sprinkle with salt, pepper, onion powder, and red pepper flakes if using. Pour the chicken broth evenly over everything.
Slow cook. Cover and cook on LOW for 4 hours or HIGH for 2 hours, until the beans are tender and have absorbed the savory broth. Stir once halfway through if possible.
Taste and adjust. Before serving, taste and adjust salt and pepper as needed. Transfer to a serving dish and spoon the pan juices over the top.

Nutrition (per serving)

Slow-Cooker Green Beans — The Dish That Holds Its Own at the Fullest Table