​Rows of tiny shot glasses are lined up on the counter at my eye level, sparkling clean, dazzling in the kitchen light, and my salivary glands spurt into action as a pitcher carefully fills each with deep purple liquid, and my grandmother places each onto a silver communion tray. The tray is carried upstairs to the church where the baptized will reverently throw back the shots and I remain behind in the basement, happily guzzling my juice from a regular sized glass. It’s 1967 at Greenacres Christian Church and the blood of Christ comes from a Welch’s grape juice can.
 
My memories of upstairs are few: nuzzling next to my Grandma Esther’s solid body on the pew, wrapped in a second-hand black wool coat I adored, the pastor’s voice lulling me to sleep; hearing my grandmother enthusiastically singing the psalms, high and slightly off-key; singing Christmas carols in the choir, dressed in red robes, my first taste of the stage. Downstairs, though, was the throbbing heart of the church to me, where women in homemade aprons bustled around in the kitchen stirring, cooking, chatting amiably, and set out their most popular dishes for the Sunday potluck the likes of sweet and sour frankfurters, Jell-O and marshmallow salads, and the most heavenly pink chiffon pie Louise, the organ player, always made.
 
When my grandma gave me a spiral-bound cookbook compiled of recipes from all the church ladies (and a few men) in the early Eighties, I was thrilled! Here in my hands was a time machine to first and second grade. Reading the recipes brought me right back to that noisy basement, and the sunny grass area outside the church where I ran wild with my cousins stopping by the loaded tables to grab a bite of grandma’s rhubarb bread. Now, over 30 years later, the book still sits on my shelf, well-thumbed, a rusty paperclip marking the equivalents and substitutions page. I feel a melancholy jab in my chest and a tight feeling in my throat as I read my grandma’s name under a recipe or two in the yellowed pages.

This popover recipe is so simple I have it memorized, yet I enjoy taking the book down and flipping through to find it. Nowadays I substitute the milk with almond milk, and they puff up just fine with no difference in the taste. Split them open when they’re hot, spread with butter and be transcended.

​Starting on January 1st each year I transform into an annoying organizational fiend, whisking all traces of Christmas away into the basement storage area (or, as is more often the case, supervising less-clumsy and much taller husband of said whisking — I like to do the cleaning afterward) where they will lie dormant until next December. Then my eyes rove around the house looking for something that might be improved, say the pantry that could really benefit from some faux-brick on one wall and a purge of seldom-used appliances. Or the ‘recipe bench’ which is one section of our chaparral table seating bench where I’ve stuffed cut-out and original hand-written recipes for years and is wasting away of neglect and begging a muffled-paper plea to be transferred into a computer file for much easier access.
 
On this rainy January day I have swaddled myself in sweats and my husband’s polar-fleece pullover, and have come up with a dinner plan that does not involve going out into the chill damp to grocery shop, but only padding in my socks over to same-said sans faux-brick pantry mentioned above. Unfortunately the recipe I have in mind had to be unearthed from that messy bench, with only the clue of remembrance; I knew I was looking for a 3x3-inch purple Post-it note written in my hand with a, perhaps magical, silver-inked pen. I scrawled it down some years ago after eating a wonderful black bean soup in a local upscale Mexican-style restaurant. From the menu description, and a highly-developed sense of taste and smell, (my heretofore unacknowledged superhero power), I ciphered out the ingredients, and worked out an acceptably similar homemade version.
 
I did not have jalapeños in-house for the mild mouth-tingling bite of pleasurable heat, so used freshly grated ginger, instead, for a new variation. Enjoy!

Black Bean Coconut Soup
1 cup onion, chopped
1 ½ Tbsp. olive oil
1 small green jalapeño, seeded and finely chopped
1 small red jalapeño, seeded and finely chopped
3 large garlic cloves, minced
2 15-oz. cans black beans, drained
1 15-oz. can coconut milk
1 cup or so of water
​Vegetable bouillon, for seasoning
 
In a large, heavy saucepan, heat olive oil over medium heat and sauté onions until softened. Add jalapeño and garlic, stirring for a minute.

Add beans,  coconut milk and water to cover beans, and bring to a gentle boil. Reduce heat and cover partially. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until flavors are melded — about 20 minutes.

Using an immersion blender, puree the soup either until smooth, or about half-way so you get some nice chunks of texture. (If using a traditional blender, puree in two batches.) Thin with additional water, if desired. Stir in veggie bouillon to taste.

Ladle soup into bowl, and garnish with chopped cilantro (optional).

Serves about 2.