Spiralized Sweet Potato & Black Bean Quesadillas -- The Fall on the Plate, Whatever Form It Takes

Portland fall. The Japanese maple turning the color of sunset. Yoga Tuesday and Thursday at the studio. The classes were full. The body was the body.

Miya, 9, can shape onigiri without falling apart. She uses wet hands. She knows the order without being told. I called Ken in Sacramento. The pauses are longer now. I asked about the daikon. He told me, slowly, about the recent harvest. He grew six. They were perfect.

Kabocha nimono Sunday. The squash from the farmers market. Slow simmered in dashi and soy and a touch of sugar. The fall on the plate.

The shiso. The chipped bowl. The newsletter on Sunday.

Miya's old room is now my office. The desk is by the window. The shiso outside. The newsletter in progress. The afternoons are quiet.

I drove to Uwajimaya Wednesday. Kombu, bonito flakes, white miso, a small bag of mochiko for tomorrow's project. The store smells like home.

The neighbor's dog barked at nothing for twenty minutes Sunday afternoon. The neighbor apologized. I told him I had been writing through it and the white noise was helpful. He laughed.

Therapy Tuesday. We talked about the wedding. We talked about Barbara. We talked about Fumiko. The hour passed. The work continues.

Sunday farmers market in the rain. The vendors knew me. The Hood River apple stand had honeycrisps. I bought four pounds.

I wrote at the kitchen table from six to eight. The newsletter was forming. The opening sentence was the hard sentence — they always are. I rewrote it five times. The fifth time was the right time.

Made dashi at five-thirty AM. Ten minutes in the kitchen alone with the kombu and the bonito flakes. The day's first prayer.

I cleaned the kitchen Sunday afternoon. Wiped the counters. Reorganized the drawer where the chopsticks live. Sharpened the knife. The reset was the reset.

The cat was the cat. Mochi at fifteen sleeps most of the day. She still eats with enthusiasm. She still sits at the kitchen window watching the back garden.

The rain in long sheets Tuesday afternoon. I made tea. I watched it from the porch. The cottonwoods on the next block were silver in the wet.

I texted Miya a photo of the shiso. She texted back a heart and a single word: home.

Yoga Tuesday morning. The studio in Sellwood. Eight students. The class was the class.

I made onigiri for tomorrow's lunch. Three triangles. Salted plum in the center. Wrapped in nori. The cling wrap. The drawer where I keep them. The system.

Miya is in elementary school. The Saturday Japanese school continues. She still complains. She is still going.

I read for an hour Sunday night. A book of essays by a Korean-American writer about food and grief. I underlined a paragraph that said exactly what I had been trying to say in the newsletter for months.

Tomi watered the garden Saturday morning. The shiso was head-high. The shishito peppers were producing. The kabocha was running on the fence.

Coffee with a friend Saturday morning. We talked about books, about kids, about the way our forties became our fifties. The talking is the thing.

A panic flicker Tuesday evening, brief, manageable. I breathed. I drank water. I went outside and walked around the block. The flicker passed. The body did its work.

A reader sent me a handwritten card this week. Her grandmother had cooked Japanese food in 1970s Boise. She had felt alone in it. The newsletter, she wrote, made her feel less alone. I taped the card to the wall above my desk.

The kabocha on Sunday does its slow, meditative work — but on the other nights of the week, when the kitchen light comes on at five and there is a nine-year-old who needs dinner before Japanese school homework, I reach for something that carries the same sweet, earthy spirit of fall without the long simmer. These spiralized sweet potato and black bean quesadillas have become that answer: the farmers market sweet potato, the pantry black beans, the cast iron getting hot on the stove. It is not nimono, but it is the season, and it is enough.

Spiralized Sweet Potato & Black Bean Quesadillas

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 35 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

• 2 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and spiralized (or cut into thin matchsticks)
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1/2 teaspoon cumin
• 1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
• 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder
• Salt and black pepper to taste
• 1 can (15 oz) black beans, drained and rinsed
• 1 1/2 cups shredded Monterey Jack or pepper jack cheese
• 4 large flour tortillas (10-inch)
• 1 tablespoon neutral oil or cooking spray, for the pan
• Sour cream, salsa, sliced avocado, or fresh cilantro for serving

Instructions

1. Cook the sweet potato. Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the spiralized sweet potato and season with cumin, smoked paprika, garlic powder, salt, and pepper. Toss to coat and cook, stirring occasionally, for 7—9 minutes until the sweet potato is just tender and lightly caramelized at the edges. Transfer to a bowl and wipe out the skillet.
2. Warm the beans. Add the drained black beans to the same skillet over medium heat and warm for 2 minutes. Season lightly with salt. Add to the bowl with the sweet potato and stir gently to combine.
3. Assemble the quesadillas. Lay a tortilla flat. Sprinkle about 3 tablespoons of cheese over one half. Spoon a generous quarter of the sweet potato and black bean filling over the cheese. Add another 3 tablespoons of cheese on top of the filling, then fold the tortilla over to close.
4. Cook until golden. Brush or spray the wiped skillet with a little oil and heat over medium heat. Cook each quesadilla for 2—3 minutes per side, pressing gently with a spatula, until golden brown and the cheese is fully melted. Work in batches as needed.
5. Slice and serve. Cut each quesadilla into wedges and serve immediately with your choice of sour cream, salsa, avocado, or fresh cilantro.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 420 | Protein: 16g | Fat: 15g | Carbs: 55g | Fiber: 9g | Sodium: 520mg