Tushkovana Kvasolia (тушкована квасоля, stewed beans)

The clever thing about beans is how little they ask before they become generous. A dry handful swells overnight, then slowly gives itself up to the pot, soft at the centre, creamy at the edges, ready to take on tomato, garlic, dill, and the green-gold shine of unrefined sunflower oil. This is food that feeds a full table without needing meat to prove anything.

For my southern steppe version, the beans cook first, plain and patient, with bay and a whole onion if I have one. The zasmazhka, our slow-sweated flavour base of onion and carrot, comes at the end with tomato paste or thick tomato mors from the jar. That is the one why that decides the dish: add it late and its sweetness sits brightly on the beans; add it early and it disappears into the cooking water, useful but quiet.

Aunt Nadia wrote only, "cook until it sounds right," which is comedy if you are thirteen in London and furious at a saucepan. Now I know what she meant. The hard rattle of beans softens into a low, thick burble, the tomato loses its raw sharpness, and the spoon starts leaving a track through the pot.

Make a big one. It is better tomorrow, better still with rye bread, and excellent cold from the fridge when nobody is watching.