Exploding Face-Melting Black Bean Soup

I finally pulled my new pressure cooker off of the shelf today to give it a whirl.   Partly because I keep hearing about how much better home-cooked beans taste than canned beans and my curiosity was piqued, and also because it was a rainy, dreary day in Brooklyn and a pot of hot bean soup just sounded good. 

But, dude, this pot is INTIMIDATING.  It comes with a 72 page instruction manual, which is really 10 pages of instructions and 62 pages of HOW NOT TO KILL OR MAIM YOURSELF AND YOUR FAMILY WHILE COOKING WITH THIS POT.  Seriously, this devil manual said things like  “Here are some helpful hints to avoid scalding” and “children should not be in the presence of the pressure cooker” and “do not let any of your friends borrow this pot if they have not read this manual” because if their face melts off the manufacturer will not be held responsible. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Green Goddess

This has been my summer of three weddings (including mine) and a funeral.  Lots of laughing, lots of crying, lots of family, and LOTS of eating and drinking.  It's been insane.  


Celebration after celebration of life, and  perhaps I took the liberty of overindulging.  Just a little.  OK, I basically spent months shoveling/pouring whatever I wanted into my maw with a devil may care attitude.  And now the devil has reaped his revenge by cursing me with what I can only describe as a not-quite-immaculately conceived wine and cheese belly.  I feel bloated.  Like a tick.