This morning, I thought about my mother. How she’d pour out a few dozen frijoles onto the kitchen table and, with her glasses perched on the edge of her nose, carefully inspect the beans for any rocks or specks of dirt that may have snuck in. Before the pandemic, I would also pick out any imperfect ones that I’d see. Not today, though: I tossed in the ones that looked unappealing too, because I knew that I was lucky to have beans in the first place. I peeled and cut the garlic and added the salt (not too much, but not too little). The stove’s blue flame flickered on.

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