Pumpkin Black Bean Soup

I still think of myself as a shy person, something that someone who’s met me in the past five years or so probably wouldn’t understand. Now, I’m always the first one to introduce myself, the first one to challenge someone I don’t know to a chugging contest, the first one to dance like an idiot while waiting for the metro. I know this about myself, and yet I’d never describe myself as outgoing, and I still think that I must come off as shy to most people.

If this were really true, I wouldn’t be able to be so self-aware about it. I confess, I have a secret: I finally realized how not shy I am in English when I realized how shy I still am in French.

Finding myself in a social situation where I’m the only English speaker reminds me of myself in middle school. I perch somewhere out of the way and convince myself that everyone in the room is in on a secret that I don’t know. I don’t go as far as my high school roommate, who seemed to think that everyone hated her, but I still clam up, unsure of what to say, so I say nothing at all. Conversations move around me, two or three at a time, and instead of participating, I listen, soaking everything up like a sponge but refusing to chime in for fear of sounding stupid.

Since moving back to Paris, I’ve gone to Orléans twice with the Country Boy, going to birthday parties that felt as awkward as fifth grade church basement dances. I stood in a corner, nursing a whiskey Coke, wishing that I could come up with something intelligent to say that would make these people who had known one another forever, shared all the same stories and memories, think of me as someone worth talking to. Last year was even worse: the Parisian’s Parisian friends were so hard to talk to that I found myself weeping at the end of social events, out of stress, out of loneliness, out of worry over the fact that this social awkwardness might be the rest of my life, should I decide to make my life here.

I’ll give the Country People one thing: they’re much friendlier than Parisians. After an hour or so of feeling like an outcast, the girls in the group turned to me and started asking me questions about America, about New York, about my decision to move to France. It felt like being welcomed into a club, a club that I’m still not sure I belong in, a club I feel like I have to rejoin every time I see these people, but a club that didn’t turn me away at the door, at least.

The American Proust Fan seems to think I pass for a French person on a regular basis; I’m convinced I stand out like a sore thumb. The reality is probably halfway between–not nearly as awkward as I felt, which was only slightly more awkward than I was, in middle school, but not quite the hair-tossing, skinny-jeans-wearing, cigarette-smoking, expert-shrugging Parisian whose club I want to join. Maybe someday, like I finally did at the end of high school, I’ll get over my hangups and be a real part of it.

In the meantime, I content myself with doing the things that no longer make me nervous, even if they did before: speaking French with the American Proust Fan, who flatters me by praising my every word and mimicking the handful of French expressions I’ve picked up over the years, and, of course, cooking. I showed the APF my blog, and she seems to think I’m some sort of culinary genius, which is a bit strong as far as I’m concerned, although one thing is for sure: I can cook.

One of my biggest hurdles when I first learned my way around a kitchen was figuring out which herbs and spices go with different ingredients. Pumpkin and squash are often paired with thyme and sage or cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg; here I’ve gone with cumin, a traditional pairing with the other main ingredient of this dish, black beans.

Throwing together something like this reminds me of the fact that nothing comes easy at the beginning–when I first started cooking five years ago, I was a mess, burning things every evening and following recipes to the letter. Now, I can come home, rummage through the cupboard and throw a few things in a pot to make dinner. Maybe someday I’ll walk into a French party with the same confidence I have walking into my kitchen.

Black Bean Pumpkin Soup

500 g. dried black beans

1 tsp. olive oil
1 onion, minced
2 garlic cloves minced
1 tablespoon cumin
1 tbsp. tomato paste
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
salt
1 16-ounce can pumpkin puree (about 1 1/2 cups)

Soak the black beans in water overnight.

When ready to prepare, heat the oil over medium heat in a heavy-bottomed pot. Add the onion and sauté until soft and translucent, about 10 minutes. Add the garlic and cumin and cook until fragrant, 1-2 minutes. Add the tomato paste and fry until thick, another minute.

Add the black beans to the pot and cover with double their volume in water. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to low and cover, cooking and stirring occasionally for an hour, or until the black beans are tender. Season with pepper and salt, and add the pumpkin. Cook uncovered until the soup is thick. If you like, you can purée some or all of it for a thicker texture.