Here's my roster of meals I've been making lately: three bean vegan chili, navy bean soup, black bean soup, minestone with extra red beans, vegan chowder with pureed white beans and vegetable stock, black beans and rice, vegan jambalaya over rice, and baked beans with fried eggs and brown bread (this is a throw back to the Maine roots of my bestie, Prema, a meal she taught me in college). The only time I mix this up is the occasional mini-frozen pizza (always a disappointment), lentil soup, or stir fry with tofu (also a bean) and peanut sauce. Sometimes, in the co-op, I walk by the chicken and think, "I could buy some of that" , and my mouth waters at the thought of a chicken taco or chicken pot roast.
As I finished up what only feels utilitarian, I remembered one of the reasons why beans are my staple:
This weekend, I did the megabus to Chicago. The megabus always says it's only seven hours but it ends up more like eight--a full work day cooped up with my laptop, waves of nausea reminding me of my childhood car sickness (a condition that lasted well into my 20's) and the aches in my hips disrupting any meaningful studying I can get done. By the time I arrive in Chicago, I want only Chinese takeout and my partner's arms.
Thursday, we gave ourselves one night without work but the next day, it was back to the grind, absorbing cultural theory in between keynotes at a media historiography conference. I felt exhilarated by the conference material (a field only loosely related to my own but much more in line with my partner's work) but by Saturday, as Cat and I drained a bottle of malbec and watched Cleopatra Jones (this was work, too, a piece Cat it working on regarding Blackploitation), I wanted more time. I wanted a day with Cat that was just us.
The next morning, we got up, walked the dogs along Lake Michigan, and headed downtown for my 9:40 bus. Seeing we still had plenty of time, we popped into a Dunkin Donuts (of course we did--I'm a masshole at heart and while some of us miss the Red Sox and the change of seasons, I miss my medium french vanilla black). As I'm carefully peeling back the plastic of my lid, taking the first sip of what I can only refer to as my own, very different kind of black gold, I looked up and saw a megabus with "Columbus/Indianopolis" pull away from the corner. "Look!" I said to Cat. "My bus is here! Why is it driving that way?"
"It's probably just turning around."
I take another sip, check my phone (9:03) and perch myself on the sidewalk. Then it occurs to me.
"What time was your bus?"
"9:40."
"Are you sure?"
"I think so. The Columbus one leaves at 10:40 so of course it's the same time." I pull out my reservation number and ticket printout. "Shit."
"It was 9:00, wasn't it?" I circumvent Cat's question, this time gulping my coffee, as she grabs the ticket out of my hand.
"So I guess you're getting on tomorrow's bus." Cat smiles and we head toward Union Station to check prices on our phones and book me another ticket. Fifty-seven dollars later, I'm booked for the next morning. I cancel my Monday teaching. I worry for a second about the money but then I remember: my savings. Every week, I put twenty bucks in the savings account, money I scrape together from grocery bills spent on my soup recipes.
Another sip of my Dunkin, this time luke warm, and my stomach settles into the idea of one more day with Cat. And I have my beans to thank.
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