An imperfect recipe: Romano beans with cherry tomatoes, anchovies and potatoes

So, a few days ago, my friend Karen asked me for green bean ideas. It was the kind of casual pre-yoga class chitchat that inflicts no pressure, no requirement to seem particularly witty or intelligent. Two women talking. Green beans. Her garden was exploding with them. What to do?

And without thinking, I answered. Anchovies. There are certain flavors that work together – maybe not in a love for the ages kind of way - you complete me and someday someone will write sonnets about us, name a galaxy, request our theme song on late-night radio. Maybe not quite like that. I’m not sure, for example, that Bette Midler will ever tackle the simpatico that is green beans and anchovies, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth talking about. At least casually, in the five minutes before a yoga class.

Green beans and anchovies. There is something there. In a good friend kind of way, hang out for years because you’re compatible and you breathe a little easier when the person is around. There is something right between them. Something that makes everything a little better. A little brighter. A little more interesting.

Anyway, I started rattling on about this recipe I’ve been playing with recently. Olive oil, garlic, crushed red pepper and anchovies. Blanch the green beans. Toss them in a hot pan with the oil and whatnot, let them crinkle and give way a little, then at the last minute add cherry tomatoes. Just until the skin cracks. Salt and serve.

By the way, this is one of those stealth anchovy dishes. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Just enjoy. I’ve served it to plenty of people who think they hate anchovies and all they ever say is, wow, these green beans have great flavor. Yup. Nod. Smile conspiratorially to my son, who loved to cook this dish in part because it makes him feel sneaky. Mmmmm, good. Yes, these green beans are good. Mmmmm.

So I told my friend about the stealth green beans, how much my family loved the dish, and how everyone sops up the leftover garlic-laced oil with their crusty pieces of bread. And then I wondered, why hadn’t I told you?

I’ve been meaning to write about this dish for weeks. I’d shot the pictures, everything was loaded onto the computer, but I had been holding off. Why?

Then I had a good laugh. Despite my best efforts, I’d given in to delusions of grandeur. You see, the recipe isn’t perfect. I’ve never gotten the dish quite right. It works, yeah, for the family, on the porch, in the dim light of a setting Wednesday sun. Kids fighting over the heel of the bread, water glasses tipping and paper towels flying. It is quite tasty, actually. But somehow, I’d gotten it in my head that Celinabean had to be more than that. That this wasn’t a conversation, like the one I had with my friend before yoga, but some kind of show that I was putting on, pretending to be perfect, have it all figured out.

Opps. There are times in writing and cooking when everything should be perfect, or as best as you can possibly get it, but Celinabean isn’t it. In fact, the reason I started this site was because I needed to escape the constraints of formal journalism that I’d been writing under for more than 15 years. Let things fly a little. See what might happen if words and ideas were allowed to twist in the wind.

So here I am with some imperfect green beans. Let me tell you what is working and what isn’t.

First, I love the Romano beans that you can get this time of year. Locally, Gade Farms has them most of the time. Regular green beans work, but these are my favorite for this dish. It has something to do with the anchovy thing. Maybe they speak Italian to each other or something.

Anyway, what I’ve been trying is a way to add potatoes. One meal a few weeks back, I made the dish along with some baked potatoes. They were a waxy variety, not red, but similar in texture and size. I baked them and tossed them on the table because I was too tired to think of anything else. Well, they turned out to be the best method of sopping up the oil under the beans. At some point during the meal, I realized that both my son and my husband had disappeared. I found them in the kitchen, potato skins in hand, hunched over the green bean pot mopping up the dredges. You have to try this, my son said, and popped a chunk of bottom-of-the-pan bliss in my mouth.

Wow, I thought, add the potatoes and perhaps a deep pour of red wine and you have gone from side dish to mid-summer meal.

So I’ve been playing. But it isn’t quite right. I am sticking with the waxy variety. The flavor works great with the beans and infused oil. But I’m not sure how to cook the potatoes. I baked them – again laziness won out – and then chunked them and poured the whole mess over top. It was OK, but the oil didn’t go far enough and many of the potatoes were a little tasteless. They needed a to contribute a little something on their own, not just feed on the green bean flavors.

So next time, I will roast them. If I can get over the lazy thing. (I'm open to suggestions here.)

That said. It was a Wednesday. Just the family. On the porch in the dusky summer light. Not magazine perfect, but worth a conversation.