The black bean salad that saves me

This fresh, colorful little wonder salad saves the day when you’re too tired to put in the effort. Perfect for haphazard schedules and ever-changing plans, it’s a dish I count on. Made ahead, it stays top-tier excellent for days. Appetizer, main—whatever I need—it’s what I want waiting in the fridge when sundown hits and no one (by which I mean me) feels like doing more than firing up the grill. It’s a crowd-pleasing workhorse, so keep track of this one.

It doesn’t need time to marry; it’s delicious the moment you stir it together. It keeps well, travels well — and I swear I’m not overselling — it really is extraordinary. Served in a pretty bowl with sturdy chips, it wins people over every time. With bright, unexpected flavor, it zaps hunger and buys time to get dinner on the table. Spoon it over citrus-kissed grilled fish, and you’ve got one of the easiest, best dinners imaginable.

That’s the magic: ready and waiting, no effort required. Just add it to a plate for something well-rounded and gorgeous. For me, it’s indispensable during boating season, when I’m juggling the roles of host and carefree reveler.

Fresh basil and orange zest set this black bean salad apart from its cumin-chili-lime Mexican heritage. I’ve relied on this version for years, in every season, for every occasion — or no occasion at all. After a long day on the water, when my husband and I descend on the kitchen like ravenous raccoons, it’s often the prize waiting in the fridge: a ready-made meal for two, saving the day once again.

This summer was different. I cooked and hosted plenty, though not nearly enough reveling, and made this salad on repeat to the delight of all. But Summer 2025 vanished in a blur of dizzying heat and disruptive porch repairs. It flew by — the fastest summer of my life.

I recall little more than a few stellar watermelons after our firecracker-popping neighbors finally ran out of explosives. I didn’t get nearly enough corn or tomatoes, and heartbreak of heartbreaks, I missed the figs completely. In the blink of an eye, farmers markets were announcing their last weekends. The true gut punch came when I ran into the store for birdseed and walked straight into a wall of school supplies where beach towels and sunscreen had been. Stupefied, I stood in the aisle, convinced I’d slipped through a time warp.

Looking back, mornings had gotten quieter a few weeks ago. The season wasn’t technically over, but maybe I was late noticing the shine fading. I’d like to say I noticed the birds shifting, families thinning on the shore or boat traffic dying down — but I didn’t. My only defense is this: it’s nearly impossible to spot summer’s end while simmering in our signature brew of heat and humidity, juggling house repairs all the while.

Whatever the reason, the realization was a wake-up call to the breakneck speed of time. Evidently, that means I’m getting old. Or so my neighbor Jack told me. He rolled down his truck window one afternoon, and when I casually mentioned how fast summer had gone, he hit me with his gut-punching verdict: I had officially entered old age.

Granted, I already felt mostly dead that day, wilting on a midday walk I should have taken early. Maybe it was the sight of Jack’s towering truck, maybe the certainty in his voice, but my mind spiraled: Am I making the most of the days I have left? How many good years remain? How long can I wear heels? Had I run out of time to master yoga poses? (Yes, I decided—clearly out of reach now.) I revisited decades of regrets, replaying what I should have said or done differently, wishing I had shown more kindness in tough moments. A pity party, no question.

But I made it through. The worst of the heat, the house repairs, the hosting, the existential crisis—and my mental health is intact. I don’t feel life has passed me by. My life is big, full, vibrant. Full of great food, adventures, a wonderful family and more love than I ever dreamed possible. If this is old age, Jack — well, I’ll take it.