The Bite subscribers can now join the conversation — click the speech bubble icon to leave a comment or click the heart to like this post. Last week, we talked about The Briny Bunch. This week, we’re continuing our series on budget cooking with some cool beans. Let’s dive in!

Once I grew up just enough to start grocery shopping according to a budget — not merely the amount of cash rattling around in my wallet that week — I realized something peculiar. For some reason, whenever I reached for cheap pantry staples, I kept ending up in winter.

Let me explain.

I'd stock up on bags of beans and rice and day-old bread and, before long, it would be July 7. The air conditioner would be groaning heroically in the window while I stood over a Dutch oven of long-simmered chili or a poor woman's cassoulet (chicken thighs in place of duck), steadily adding heat to an apartment that already had plenty to spare.

Looking back, I think I'd accidentally fused the ingredients themselves to the preparations I most associated with them. Lentils weren't just lentils; they were stew. Beans weren't just beans; they were something that needed to bubble away on the stove for hours. These were foods for when snow was falling outside and "stick to your ribs" sounded reassuring rather than vaguely threatening.

I considered myself reasonably food-savvy at the time, but there was one thing I had somehow never thought about: pantry staples have seasons, too.

Or perhaps more accurately, they can.

Take beans.

The secret to summer beans, at least in my opinion, is to marinate them.

People may want to quibble with me about this, but I believe marinated beans occupy a category adjacent to, yet ontologically distinct from, bean salad. They're cousins. Close cousins, perhaps. But not the same thing. In my bean salads, acid tends to take center stage.

Here, it's fat.

And here’s why: The first truly memorable marinated beans I ever ate arrived in a shallow white bowl at a vegetarian Mediterranean restaurant near Adams Morgan in Washington, D.C. This was about eleven years ago and, frustratingly, I can no longer remember the restaurant's name. What I do remember is the light.

It was happy hour. The patio was catching the late afternoon sun, and the olive oil surrounding the gigantes — those enormous, tender butter beans — seemed almost gilded. I kept tearing off pieces of crusty bread and dragging them through the oil before spooning the beans on top. The entire dish felt improbably luxurious for something built from ingredients I could have easily afforded myself. The discovery that a humble bean could feel indulgent came as something of a revelation.

I have a long-running habit of coming home from restaurants and immediately trying to recreate whatever I loved most. That bowl of gigantes was one of the first dishes that sent me straight to the grocery store.

For years afterward, versions of it appeared regularly in my summer cooking rotation. On a graduate student's budget, and later a public radio paycheck, it felt almost decadent: a bowl of beans dressed generously with olive oil, lemon and whatever herbs happened to be in season. The sort of meal that costs very little but somehow convinces you otherwise.

Here's what you'll need.

Good olive oil  — If you've spent much time with me in the kitchen, you'll know I'm usually fairly relaxed about substitutions. Part of becoming a confident cook is learning how to improvise your way through a recipe. Half-and-half plus lemon juice can become something resembling buttermilk. Sour cream can stand in for yogurt. We survive. This is one of the rare occasions where I'm going to encourage a little stubbornness.

The olive oil is the point.

You don't need the most expensive bottle on the shelf, nor one that arrives with a romantic backstory about a hillside grove. Just choose an olive oil you'd happily use in a vinaigrette and whose flavor you genuinely enjoy. If you need to drift toward avocado oil, I'll allow it. Vegetable oil, however, would feel a bit like showing up to a garden party in fluorescent gym shorts.

Tender white beans: Cannellini beans, Great Northern beans, navy beans, gigantes, even lima beans. What you're looking for is that creamy, almost velvety interior that absorbs olive oil so enthusiastically.

Aromatics, herbs and spices: This is where things become delightfully difficult to mess up. A good starting formula is one aromatic, one fresh herb and one dried herb or spice. 

Fresh garlic, parsley and red pepper flakes. Shallot, dill and oregano. Rosemary, onion powder and thyme. The exact combination matters less than the feeling you're after. And then top the whole thing with salt, the flakier the better. 

Acid: You'll need something to keep all that olive oil company. Lemon juice is wonderful. So is a bright vinegar. White wine vinegar works beautifully, though I also love the softer personality of rice vinegar and the faint fruitiness of white balsamic. And don't neglect the zest.

Lemon zest is the obvious choice, but after reading this recipe by Bibi Hutchings, I've become increasingly fond of orange zest with beans. It's unexpected in exactly the right way.

Extras: One of the things I love most about marinated beans is their restraint. They don't need much. Still, I rarely resist a little edible confetti. A spoonful of chopped roasted red peppers. A few artichoke hearts. Some buttery Castelvetrano olives. Roasted garlic. The sort of briny treasures that tend to accumulate after an enthusiastic trip to the olive bar. Just enough to create moments of surprise. Not enough to distract from the beans themselves.

The technique: The technique is simple. For every can of beans, start with about 3 to 4 tablespoons of olive oil and 1 to 2 teaspoons of lemon juice or vinegar, plus your aromatics, herbs and spices. Stir everything together and let it sit for at least 30 minutes before eating, though a few hours in the refrigerator is even better.

This is also where marinated beans diverge from bean salad, at least in my personal taxonomy. Most vinaigrettes are built around a balance of oil and acid. Here, the ratio tips decidedly toward olive oil. The acid should be present enough to brighten the beans and keep the dish from feeling heavy, but not so assertive that it dominates. As the beans sit, they absorb some of the dressing's flavor while also releasing a bit of their starch into the olive oil, creating something that feels almost silky. 

The result is less salad than preservation: tender beans suspended in a fragrant pool of olive oil that's perfect for spooning over toast or scooping up with vegetables. And here’s my current favorite version:

Serves 2 generously, or 4 as a snack

Ingredients 

In a medium bowl, combine the olive oil, garlic, parsley, oregano, red pepper flakes, fennel seed, artichoke heart, white balsamic and citrus zests. Season with a generous pinch of salt and a few grinds of black pepper.

Add the butter beans and gently toss to coat. Let sit for at least 30 minutes, though an hour or two in the refrigerator is even better.

Taste before serving. The beans should feel rich and fragrant, with the olive oil leading the way and the vinegar acting more as a brightening note than a dominant flavor. Add another splash of vinegar or pinch of salt if needed.

Pile the beans onto a platter or shallow bowl, making sure to spoon all of the herby olive oil over the top. Serve with grilled sourdough for dragging through every last drop.

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Speaking of pantry staples that deserve a second look, I found myself lingering over Joy Saha's story yesterday about canned soup — not the artisanal kind, just the familiar supermarket standbys. Her premise is simple: a few small kitchen habits can make something straight from a can taste a little more like dinner.

Most of us already do this with frozen pizza or canned soup's buddy, instant ramen. We doctor them up instinctively. But Joy makes a compelling case for extending the same courtesy to canned soup rather than treating it as something destined for a quick spin in the microwave.

It's hard to pick a favorite tip, but the one that made me stop and think, "Well, that's obvious, why have I never done that?" is the one that really satisfies culinary logic: sauté your aromatics first.

She writes: "I like to caramelize yellow onions with butter and a pinch of salt before adding a clove or two of fresh garlic, stirring continuously to prevent them from burning. I'll do this over medium-low heat in a small saucepan. Then, I'll pour in my choice of soup, allowing it to heat up with the aromatics and incorporate those strong flavors. Within minutes, your kitchen will smell heavenly — and dinner is served."

It's the sort of trick that takes all of five extra minutes, but makes the whole meal feel more considered. For the rest of Joy's suggestions, check out the full story here.

I'm a sucker for stories that, simply through the force of excellent reporting, pull me into some highly specific world I knew almost nothing about the day before. This week, that world was climbing.

After reading "The True Story Behind the 'El Cap Kindergartener' Ascent," I found myself looking up terms like cleaning pitches and jumaring and falling down various climbing-related rabbit holes.

As journalist Sam MacIlwaine explains, a few weeks ago, a seven-year-old boy reached the top of El Capitan in Yosemite. This was a genuinely remarkable feat: Joey Danger Evermore became the youngest person in history to ascend the iconic 3,000-foot granite monolith. (Yes, Danger is really his middle name. Perhaps even more fascinating: the family legally changed their surname from Baker to Evermore.)

But did he actually climb it?

Well. That's where things get a bit murkier.

By the end of the story, I was less interested in the debate itself than in the culture orbiting it. I found myself browsing climbing forums and collecting bits of vocabulary the way a raven collects shiny objects. One phrase I particularly enjoyed was "out on the crag."

Naturally, this led me to wonder: What do people actually eat out on the crag?

The answers, according to the climbers of Reddit, are delightfully varied. Couscous salads. Pasta salads. Snickers bars. Packets of almond butter and honey. A Bojangles biscuit. One alpine climber described packing "a tortilla with prosciutto and salami with some crunchy fried onions I get from the Asian store and a tube of mayo to squirt on right before I eat," which sounds suspiciously delicious.

From there, I wandered into the world of climbing cookbooks, which led me to camping cookbooks, which feels like a topic deserving of its own future issue.

In the meantime, I'd like to leave you with another outdoor-themed recommendation: “Camping,” a dark comedy from the BBC.

The premise sounds straightforward enough. A group of longtime friends gathers in Devon to celebrate a milestone birthday with a camping holiday. But as tends to happen when people bring years of accumulated grievances into a field and remove most modern comforts, tensions begin to surface. Things become even more complicated when one guest arrives with a new love interest (played by creator Julia Davis), and the two can't seem to keep their hands off each other.

The show's writing is sharp, observant and occasionally astonishingly bleak. By the end, you'll be very glad you're not sharing a campsite with any of these people.

Until next week,
Ashlie Stevens, senior food editor

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