STEP RIGHT UP

It’s Britain’s Got Talent meets Dragons' Den, tinged with a little Jerry Springer, so seems the current description of the TV pilot that’s in the works. Production is squeaking along and, as predicted, the shoot dates have been changed twice since my last post. I’m going to be blacklisted from my hair salon.

A venue in Norwich has been chosen. Road trip! If the private plane doesn’t pan out, I’ve chosen Plan B.

Seems there’s a little trouble brewing in Norwich. I’m told our candidates - people who’d like a little help with a life changing issue - are, umm, unusual.

It’s come to this: Normal people just won’t do for TV. Wonder what that says about me. One of the candidates has an ambition to be a Johnny Depp look alike. (I resist the urge to insert photo.) Surely, either you are a Johnny Depp look alike, or you aren’t. Am I correct here? I’m told he’s the spitting image, especially when he’s donned full Jack Sparrow regalia. So why does he need help from our panel? Is it a business plan he’s after? Or would he like hair and clothing advice à la Mr. Depp? Guess I’ll find out later.

Our producer and director have pulled a few more quirky people out of the barrel.

Quirky, in this case, also means unreliable, a bit flaky and highly volatile. At the moment we are unsure of shoot dates. Apparently pinning down two consecutive days, attempting to collect the candidates' questionnaires and wrangling a commitment from them has been a nightmare. I’m wondering if I should be concerned for my safety. Might they throw chairs and other objects? There are no plans to have therapists standing in the wings, so I suggest we borrow a couple from the Jeremy Kyle show. Insurance anyone?

Boy oh boy.

SO, WHAT’S IT LIKE TO BE IN A PILOT AIMED AT BRITISH TV?

I don’t know, but I’m going to find out very soon. My husband and I will be heading to the north of England for a two-day shoot. How far north – I’m uncertain, but I don’t think nosebleeds are a worry.

We’re going to be on a panel that helps people with 'personal challenges'. I think it’s a great idea and the “helpful” bit pulled me in. Television isn’t easy. It’s not easy to create a show, almost impossible to sell a show, and damn hard to be in one. I had a brush with a few shows in the States and it’s gruelling; it takes every ounce of focus and sucks your energy like a newborn. It can also be incredibly FUN. And I‘m not in the habit of turning down interesting opportunities, so here I go.

The pilot won’t be scripted. The “candidates” are unknown to the panel until they walk into the room, so there’s no homework. This means that the most important thing for me to do during the shoot is be fully present and listen well. I’m the only female on the panel and the only American. A few BBC America shows sometimes use subtitles because the various British accents aren’t always understood. I’ve lived in London for five years this go round and sometimes I can’t understand people either. Gosh, wonder if that will be a problem up north. (Wipes brow.)

The shoot is in a couple of weeks, if we stay on schedule. This gives me an enormous amount of time to

When I first heard that it was a go, all I could think about was…well… ME!

There’s nothing like a TV camera honing in on every flaw to get your panties in a twist. My brain screamed at me. Here’s what it said:

It’s too late for a face-lift!

Go to the gym every day for the rest of your life!

Cut out the sugar!

Make three hundred hair and manicure appointments!

Eat only raw food for a month.

Shop, shop, shop for the perfect outfit.

Did I think about the concept for the show? Noooo. Did I think that I might need to brush up on a few presentation skills? Of course not.

Vanity, thy name is Kate.

Shakespeare never wrote that, by the way, the real quote is, ‘Frailty thy name is woman.’ but I just can’t go there.

Progress thus far:

I’m still eating sugar, but only on the weekends. Does that count?

I’ve been to the gym, but not every day. Goal too high.

My yoga classes are going well, the two I’ve had so far.

There will be no face-lift, Botox, liposuction, or laser eye lifts. Yet.

Teeth are sore from whitening.

I haven’t been shopping yet, but I’ve thought a lot about it.

Hair appointments have been changed three times due to ever changing shoot dates.

Fretting over manicure - manicurist drew blood twice last time.

Have begged on bended knee for a professional makeup artist for the shoot. No answer yet. Men!

There’s talk of hitching a ride to the shoot in a private plane. I thought the director was joking, or testing my gullibility, but it seems he has a friend…

It’s exactly the kind of plane that would not do well soaring through volcanic ash.

I’ll tweet and blog about the process as we get closer, but I may be too nervous to hit the keys correctly. Of course this could all go belly up in a split second. If it goes well, after the pilot is edited and the director destroys all footage that makes me look like Minnie Pearl or a man in drag, the syndicators and broadcasters will have a look see. I’ll go back to my desk and continue to plot my novel, which is coming along very slowly these days. I’ve been a bit distracted.

THE HOUSE IN WHITECHAPEL

600 words. He had an image of a young woman. She walked into a room in a country house in England carrying a bunch of wildflowers. Outside, in the garden, is a young man. The woman is conflicted; she wants to talk to him and she doesn’t. Ian McEwan wrote 600 words about this image and let it brew for months. Then he wrote ATONEMENT. I love a bit of insight into an author’s process. He tells this beautifully in his BBC interview, which you can see here if you have the BBC iPlayer.

I viewed a Grade II listed Georgian house in Walden Street, Whitechapel in London a year or so ago. The row of terraced houses sit behind the hospital where John Merrick’s bones reside, you may remember him as The Elephant Man. The façades of the houses were admittedly a little bleak looking. This area where Jack the Ripper owned the streets for a time is not an area in which I would normally look at property, but I ran across photos of the interior and felt compelled to see it. The estate agent graciously left me alone to roam three floors of the painstakingly restored house. The restoration was so complete, and so bewitchingly sympathetic that I felt goose bumps walking through it. The rooms inspired a piece of flash fiction.

Mrs. Jenkins arrived at No. 6 Walden Street, her arms laden with packages. Thanks to her servant Emmie, she purchased a new pair of boots, a bonnet and a fine piece of meat from Smithfield’s.

Mrs. Jenkins’s housekeeping money afforded her two servants, but she chose to keep the money and double Emmie’s workload for the same wages – a pittance. She was certain that Emmie was grateful to have a job at all, and good heavens, she was no tyrant. Certainly not! Hadn’t she given Emmie the room in the eaves rather than the floor of the damp wash house at the rear of the property? She might have sent her to the cellar to rest among the potatoes and the occasional rat.

Mrs. Jenkins was well aware that Emmie could not stand up straight in the room without bumping her head on the wooden beams that ran across the ceiling. On rainy nights, of which there were many, Emmie slept with the air of damp clothing that hung from the beams; the overflow from the small stone wash house ate her oxygen. When Emmie crossed the few steps from the door to the bed, she brushed against Mrs. Jenkins’s large pantaloons and Mr. Jenkins’s shirttails. Chilled from her employer’s wet laundry, she shivered on a thin sheet.

It was just after three o’clock in the afternoon. Mrs. Jenkins relished this hour of the day. Emmie was out on errands and Mr. Jenkins was yet to arrive home smelling of iron, timidly awaiting his tea like a bad dog and begging for the use of her ear for his never ending monologue of the day’s events. The only reason she married Charles Jenkins was to live in this house. It wasn’t as spacious as she would have liked, still, not one of her friends could boast as many rooms and floors as she.

Everyday at this time she climbed the stairs to her husband’s sitting room where she rummaged through every drawer, every paper and every cabinet shelf. Inspection was complete after she checked under the cushions and rug. There would be no secrets. Then she climbed up the last flight where the steps suddenly narrowed and wound around like a tightly coiled snake. Emmie had rubbed the wooden stairs just this morning with polish and her sweat.

Today Mrs. Jenkins found a farthing coin tucked among Emmie’s undergarments. She almost fainted with outrage. How had the waif managed to save it? She spoke aloud in her distress: “Good God in heaven - I must be paying her too much! No, no, there goes my generous nature again. How did the girl manage to steal it?’ She quickly slipped the coin in her pocket. Mrs. Jenkins had no idea that a month ago, on Emmie’s day off, for she was only allowed one day off a month, her uncle had surprised her with the coin.

Mrs. Jenkins turned from the girl’s attic bedroom and began to make her way down. It must have been the marriage of her slippery new boots to the freshly polished wooden steps, for Mrs. Jenkins lost her footing and fell down three flights. The last thing she heard was the crack of her skull against the wall. The last thing she saw was the coin as it rolled across the bottom step.

“Through travel I first became aware of the outside world; it was through travel that I found my own introspective way into becoming a part of it”

Eudora Welty

If you have the good fortune to do a little traveling, it can be a catalyst toward feeding your creative life. I’ve been lucky enough to travel quite a bit and the experiences, both good and bad, have shaped who I am.

Many years ago I threw my journal across the room in the Mena House Oberoi Hotel in Cairo. From the moment I put my foot down in northern Africa I knew that I would taste the exotic. Men in white cotton robes, women covered from head to toe in synthetic black ones and bare-footed children with broad smiles floated from palm tree to palm tree. The scent of spices and desert overwhelmed even the diesel fuel. The ever-present call from the minarets provided the soundtrack.

I wanted to record every detail of my first trip abroad in my journal, but the experiences were many and so immediate that I soon became stressed and initmidated and soon found that I couldn’t fully be in the moment. And there were a boatload of moments I didn’t want to miss, so I threw the journal away. At times I’ve regretted it, but what I remember has stayed with me in a very vivid fashion.

My first suggestion when traveling abroad is BE HUMBLE, GRACIOUS and GRATEFUL.

I’m a guest. I have no right to intrude upon another culture with my own.

I was part of a small group invited to an Egyptian’s home for dinner. When we arrived, Nabi, our host, greeted us while his wife stirred pots in the kitchen. Before dinner, we were led into a sitting room where Gunsmoke played on a small back and white television and Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty spoke in dubbed Arabic.

When we gathered at the table for what would be an incredible meal, Nabi’s wife didn’t join us. For the rest of the evening she sat in a chair in the kitchen, feet firmly planted, hands neatly folded in her lap. Although her figure was strongly present, as if she were embossed in the pink light of her kitchen, we were never introduced. When Nabi called for her she appeared to replenish the platters of food or pour more juice. We were allowed to thank her before we left, our only contact with her.

I will always carry an image of her. Although I may have an opinion about her lifestyle, I have no right to judge it. I learned to let it be, which left me open to see a larger picture, to increase the frame around one life, one woman. This is useful to a writer.

My second suggestion, if at all possible - FULLY IMMERSE.

In his blog post “Xenophanes, Wittgenstein and Meaning” Alex Crockett states:

“As individuals there is a degree to which we expect to be understood. It isn’t that we expect people to understand our words. The sense in which we expect to be understood doesn’t change if we use a translator. What we expect is that people understand what we mean.”

The city of Beppu is on Kyushi, a small island off the coast of Japan. Beppu is home to the largest volume of hot water other than Yellowstone.

I visited a hotel in Beppu that had public baths the size of airplane hangers, one for women, and the other for men. The baths had such a variety of soaks and immersions that women and men switched bathhouses on alternate days so that we could experience all of them. I hadn’t a clue how to participate. How does one go about being buried naked in hot sand or freshly ground coffee without losing one’s dignity? None of the ladies spoke English, there were no signs that I could read, and I didn’t take the luxury of a good stare at the women in case it was misinterpreted.

So I gestured. “What do I do with this wooden bucket?” I asked by holding it out with a concentrated look of ignorance. A woman gestured back; she filled hers with water and poured it over her body. I learned you can’t go into a bathhouse until you’ve taken off all of your clothes and washed thoroughly with everyone else in the preliminary room. I became aware of this when one of the women handed me a bar of soap. By the time my wild gesturing really got going all the ladies giggled shyly, covering their mouths. (Oh my lord. There we were all naked together, yet they still covered their mouths. Again, none of my business.)

And so we washed our privates in public. Then someone gave my back a good scrub.

By the time we stepped into the main bathhouse, my shyness had evaporated. There was no scrutiny in the bathhouse. No one cared about the size of breasts, thighs, buttocks, or the appearance of cellulite. They spoke quietly, or didn’t speak at all. At first I sat in the corner of a sulphur water bath and observed. How do I make the most of this? And then I allowed myself to become part of the flow and moved with others from one type of bath to another. Things happened, we laughed, we closed our eyes to rest, we shivered from the cold baths and burned as red as lobsters from the hot ones. The coffee and sand was easier than you might think. All of this without words, without a common language, just gestures and an understanding of meaning.

I try to remember that experience when writing dialogue. Most of the time we don’t need a lot of words.

Thirdly - VISIT THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE UGLY

Ugly industrial areas remind us that there are cogs in the wheels that turn our world and make things work. I visited a car factory outside of Tokyo; I felt like I was in a Ridley Scott film. It can be challenging to think of spending hard earned time off exploring a seedy or poverty stricken area. It can even be dangerous. It’s no picnic to be held at gunpoint in a foreign country and I don’t suggest it. But I can tell you that if you happen to be in such a situation it will change your idea of what freedom means. Ever been questioned at the Tijuana border patrol? Not pleasant, but oh what fodder.

One of the best meals I’ve ever had was in a trailer park in Mexico. When the cab driver turned off the main highway onto a dark dirt road in the middle of nowhere I was sure that this was it - this was our early death. Ten minutes later we were in a trailer park strewn with fairy lights eating succulent freshly grilled fish off of paper plates with several others who’d braved the drive.

Finally, as you know, you don’t have to go abroad to travel. If you live in Manhattan and have never been to Harlem, good grief what are you waiting for? If you live in a small town and haven’t driven over to the next town for their Blueberry Festival then get there early and observe how they organize the floats for the parade. Could be hilarious; people get touchy about their floats. There’s a town in England, Ottery St. Mary, that celebrates Pixie Day – I cannot believe I’ve yet to see the re-enactment of The Pixie Revenge.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Go away.

AFTER THE MUSE

Finding inspiration is not usually a challenge for me - knock on a million pieces of wood. Although external sources often trigger an idea and feed us, I think most people agree that inspiration comes from within. However, a muse is nothing at which to sniff. One of Lucian Freud’s muses inspired a painting that set the world record for the highest amount paid at auction by a living artist. Here’s Sue the benefits worker.

But how do we move from the excitement of inspiration to a result? How do we write the last chapter, paint the last stroke, put the finishing touches on that workshop? And should we discuss the icky middle stage? I think not. I asked a few friends how they move along when stuck in the mire of creation. The answers were varied and fascinating.

Above photo: Curtsies to Lucy Martin.

Brenda, Director of Movement Dialogues has been involved in movement education since 1985. She works with a diverse group of clients, both adults and children, including artists, musicians, dancers, athletes and those who wish to enhance the quality of their life. She says:

“The earth, trees, sea and sky are always so inspiring to me and I need my time in nature. Yet it is the mindful movement and attending to my own nature -- my earth -- that allow me the ability to connect more deeply whether it is to mother nature, my husband, my friends... as it also helps me with my feeling of vitality and comfort in my own body. The movement itself connects me to my creativity -- I never know where going into that structure of comfortable exploration is going to take me.”

Lisa, is the co-owner of Chroma Makeup Studio in Beverly Hills. As a makeup artist and producer of all Chroma products including two seasonal color palates each year, Lisa is constantly in creative mode. Her response:

“That's such an interesting topic. I struggle with this a lot. I find that just starting to do whatever it is that requires inspiration helps. Sometimes the inspiration follows...sometimes it doesn't. When it doesn't I just stop working on whatever it is and start up again later. My job requires I am creative whether inspired or not, so when I'm working on things outside of makeup, I really want to be inspired. I have to add, it's interesting that when I have to produce, inspiration or not, technique takes over and the outcome is probably the same. It just doesn't feel as fulfilling.”

I have a friend who is a story analyst, writer and teacher. Seriously lucky me. She says, “I don't have any particular rituals when I'm moving on from inspiration to results, but I have always held an image in my mind since working on my grad school thesis. I think of each sentence as a brick and I'm the bricklayer. What I'm building - a wall, a room - depends on the emotional content of the section.” Love that.

I experience quite a lot of fear and anxiety when I write and quite a bit more as I sit idle and wait for the process to have it’s way with me. My friend who lays bricks gave me this.

It helps. So do her phone calls and emails – immeasurably.

So does this fellow.

He was sitting on the flagstones in Hampstead on a street called Flask Walk, no cars allowed, propped up against a table burdened with dreadful unwanted glassware. His Madam, the terrifying Jacquie, never seen without thick, hot pink lipstick and cheap perfume, sold him to me for £4.00. There's something whorish about that, I almost felt bad paying so little. I call him Worthington the Scolder. Every time I look at him he tells me to get on with it. I move him around the room and I don't like to sit with my back to him. He’s put a hex on the camera; all of his photos turn out the same, with some part of his face missing. He’s not mean, but he’s not the partygoer either.

I surround myself with things that boss me around and tell me what to do so there’s very little chance I’ll slack off without a great deal of guilt.

What do you do?

THINKING OF MISS ALBERTA

I was nervous the first time I met Miss Alberta. Did I have the right to intrude upon her privacy just because I once lived in the same house in which her great-grandmother was born a slave? I had a little talk with myself to make sure my interest in her was ignited by a genuine quest to make some sense of why and how our paths crossed.

We first met on neutral territory – a library. Books ease all things. With her was Clara, a lady who had been Miss Alberta’s caregiver, friend and protector for well over twenty years. At the time, Miss Alberta was 94 years old and as bright, intelligent and clear-headed as a woman twenty years younger. As we began to get a sense of each other, I noticed her long, elegant fingers clutched a plastic bag.

“If you want to know who I am, what I feel, it’s all in the book.”

She produced a volume of self-published poetry that she’d spent most of her life writing.

Then Miss Alberta invited me into her world. On a stifling August morning, so hot that the air quickly dampened my skin and curled my hair, I drove along the gravel road that was Bibbtown, although Bibbtown was not a town, not even a village. It was named after Major Richard Bibb, the Revolutionary war hero who, in 1820, owned over one hundred slaves in Kentucky and built his antebellum mansion in a small town, a few miles away.

This farmland acreage on the outskirts of town, deeded to Bibb’s former slaves, was barely touched by modernity except for a few telephone lines and even those disappeared as I approached Miss Alberta’s home. Her one room trailer sat a few yards from the church. Her farmhouse and all of her possessions were destroyed by fire in 1977. It was then that Clara first came to her aid. Miss Alberta lived without electricity, a telephone, or running water. Clara rigged up a generator and a gas contraption of which I never understood the workings. Miss Alberta was a pack rat, so reams of paper, books, and odd items were stacked to the ceiling. This fire hazard often caused Clara sleepless nights.

Miss Alberta was no longer able to work the fields of her ancestors on which she had raised tobacco and gardened, but she still cared for the 150 year old Bibbtown African Methodist Zion Church, also called Arnold’s Chapel, that her relatives helped build. There were only three members left, but as long as she was able, she cleaned it and readied it for monthly services. We approached the simple white clapboard building to the tune of Miss Alberta’s big set of keys that dangled in her hands. Its solitary decoration, an unassuming cross on the roof’s peak represented the only clue that it was a church.

I was not prepared for the beauty inside. The hand crafted hardwood floor supported solid wooden pews the color of molasses, shiny and smooth with wear. The mint green walls were cool and a respite from the sun. An old upright sat against a wall and Miss Alberta asked me to play. She was a deeply religious woman, but a non-believer in denominations. She fancied singing a hymn. I hadn’t played a hymn since I’d lost my baby fat and the F key and it’s cousin F sharp failed to produce a sound, but we muddled through two verses and it made her happy.

She then chose a pew and we sat quietly together until she was ready to speak.

“My great-great grandmother worked in the big house. And my great grandmother Catherine was born there. Major Bibb, his reputation was supposed to have been spotless, was Catherine’s father. Against her will. That’s why my family’s so light skinned. That happened a lot back then.”

Catherine Bibb Arnold

She looked away from me when she said, “I didn’t know my father, either. I know today that kind of thing is accepted, but back then it was deeply shameful.”

The “big house” eventually ended up in the hands of an eccentric, but business sharp elderly lady who wore no other color but red. I visited her frequently as a young girl. She bequeathed the house to my father. We moved out of the funeral home where we’d spent most of our lives and into the antique-filled antebellum home. Then we lost it, but that’s another story.

Before I left her that day Miss Alberta told me that many years ago a lady in red came to see her. She too sought to unravel the tangled threads of the history of her house.

When Miss Alberta celebrated her ninety-ninth birthday, Clara was her biggest cheerleader. She tried to positive-talk Miss Alberta into staying for another year, to hang around for the big one. But Miss Alberta was tired and ready to go. We lost her that year.

A RECIPE FOR DISASTERS

I lied. Mostly to myself, but still, I lied. I said I would never, ever post a recipe on my blog. So many people do it beautifully. But here’s the thing of it. The day before New Year’s Eve the heating broke down. From the 30^th of December until January 8^th I survived a cold week in hell. London hasn’t experienced a winter like this one for thirty years. Space heaters were a runaway best seller at the local hardware store. I became intimate with four of them.

I can’t imagine how I came down with a stomach virus during the takeover of the flat. The heating guys were incredibly nice, but I felt a shade of green as I answered their calls for things like a bucket, a broom, paper towels, tea, (my contribution to keep them happy) and a number of other things that you can’t imagine a heating specialist would need. Each time I tried to lie down to stop the room from spinning, someone called my name, or everyone’s phone rang at the same time, or they pounded on the pipes. Then one of the guys smashed his finger with a hammer. Suddenly there was blood in the oddest places. The new boiler fell off the wall and almost landed on top of the same poor guy. For days the design element of the bathroom took on a Jules Vernon atmosphere.

I must have been the only person in the UK to lose weight during the holidays. I needn’t have worried about the chocolate tart or the Danish birthday cake I ate before the traumatic New Year. I couldn’t eat for a week. When my appetite did roll around again the only thing I wanted to eat was what I consider one of the best recipes for the winter months. Ever. Ever. It’s not pretty, although I’m sure a food photographer could manage to do something with it. I’ve cobbled together several recipes, but most of the credit goes to that longhaired genius in Dorset, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall of River Cottage fame. This recipe of Minestrone will turn you into a deity, no, scrap that, not really; it will make you extra special to those who already love you and endear you to those who don’t.

Don’t despair. I’ll jot down the recipe properly at the end. I’m just adding a few visual aides.

You’re going to need some of this.

If you’re a vegetarian or Kosher, then I’ll see you on the other side, because while you can make it without pork, it won’t be quite the same. If you’re lucky and are able to buy diced pancetta, then glory hallelujah to you. If not, lardons will be your next choice. And woe is you if there are no lardons in your grocery, you’ll need to dice some pancetta or bacon, preferably from a thick cut piece.

You’re also going to need a chunk of this.

Ever wonder what to do with that Parmesan rind? Ever scrape the skin off your fingers by grating too close to that nasty rind? Those days are gone, my friend. When all things great and small are in the pot and beginning to simmer into untold goodness, you are going to toss that humble rind into the pot. Why? Depth. We’re talking about adding Freudian type depth to your Minestrone. That’s depth, not death.

And you will need a lot of stock made from one of these.

Secret tip. I use organic chicken stock cubes and water and lordy, lordy, it works every time. Don’t have to make your own stock or buy Chef Incredible’s hand wrung chicken stock from Bavaria. Or, if you’re in the States, you can use the canned variety. Sadly, we don’t have those darling cans in the UK. Go figure. I'm feeling a bit homesick at the thought.

You’ll be using several of these, too.

And none of this stuff.

And when you put it all together, it will look like this at first.

I told you, it's not a pretty dish. But not to worry, it will cook down after a while.

And now go do something else. Personally I think it’s always time for this.

So, here’s the recipe in full. I’d love to know how it turns out for you. But only if it’s good.

Marvelous Minestrone

Ingredients

3 tbs olive oil

6 ounces (130 grams) of pancetta or bacon cut into cubes

2 or 3 carrots – diced

1 onion – diced

1 or 2 sticks of celery – diced

2-3 cloves of garlic – finely chopped

6 ounces (200 grams) potato – peeled and diced

A Savoy cabbage – finely shredded

1 package of curly kale (it's safe - you won't be able to taste it)

2 tsp fresh thyme leaves, or throw a few stems in and pick them out later

1 can of chopped tomatoes

About 1 ½ quarts (1.5 litres) of chicken stock

1 can of cannellini beans, drained and rinsed (or, ditch the potato and add another can of beans)

½ cup (80 grams) of small pasta, such as macaroni or tubetti

A small bunch of flat leaf parsley, chopped

Salt and Pepper

1 piece of Parmesan rind

Freshly grated Parmesan

Warm the olive oil in a big pot, then add the pancetta and saute until golden. Add the carrot, onion, celery and saute on low heat, stirring until soft, about ten minutes. Add the garlic, potato, cabbage and thyme and cook until the cabbage wilts. This won’t take long. Add the kale and cook until it wilts. This won’t take long either. Add the tomatoes, the stock and your new best friend, the Parmesan rind, and cook on low heat, partially covered for 40 minutes. Add the beans and pasta and simmer for 20 minutes. Add more stock or water if it looks too thick, although thick isn’t a bad thing. Don’t add salt until you’ve tasted. Depending on your stock you may not need it at all. Seriously. Add pepper and throw in the parsley. Taste again for seasoning. Serve with the grated Parmesan. Expect numerous OMG’s and compliments. This recipe makes a ton.