Pork Tenderloin Stew

Twenty-five years ago today, the tunnel collapsed.

September 12, 1991. I was twenty-three years old, working the second shift at the Blue Diamond mine in Harlan County, and at approximately 2:15 PM, the roof fell. Twenty tons of rock and earth sealed the passage behind me and three other men. We were trapped in a space the size of a living room, in complete darkness, with limited air and no communication with the surface. Seventeen hours. I was certain I was going to die.

I don't talk about this much. I've mentioned it, circled around it, referenced it the way you reference a car accident — quickly, factually, without lingering on the details. But today is the anniversary and I'm sitting on the back porch in Lexington with a bourbon at seven o'clock in the morning, which Connie would disapprove of if she knew, but she's at work and Clay's at school and it's just me and the memory and the bourbon, and the bourbon is helping more than the memory.

The four of us — me, Jimmy Boggs, Carl Sizemore, and Dewey Combs — sat in the dark and breathed carefully because careful breathing saves air and panic wastes it. Jimmy prayed out loud. Carl was quiet. Dewey talked about his kids, two boys and a girl, and I remember thinking that was cruel — not Dewey talking, but the universe, for letting a man think about his children in what might be his last hour. I thought about Betty's fried chicken. I've never told anyone that. In what I believed were my final hours on earth, I thought about fried chicken. But it wasn't about the chicken. It was about the hand that made it. It was about Betty standing at the stove, about the sizzle of batter hitting hot oil, about the kitchen that was the center of everything good. That's what you think about when you think you're dying: you think about the kitchen.

I also thought about Connie. We'd been dating for eight months and I'd never told her I loved her because I was twenty-three and dumb and Hensley men don't say things until the mountain is literally on top of them. I sat in the dark and promised God that if I got out, I'd tell her. I kept that promise six weeks later at our wedding.

The rescue team broke through at 4:17 AM. I walked out under my own power. Connie was there. She'd been there for twelve hours. I told her I loved her. She said she'd known for months. We got married. Betty made fried chicken for the reception.

I went back to the mines because there was no other work. But I was different. The nightmares started. The drinking started, not much at first. The claustrophobia — I couldn't be in elevators, couldn't be in closets, couldn't be in the dark without my pulse going to war with my chest. The mines gave me PTSD before I knew what PTSD was. I managed. I coped. I kept going into the mountain every day because Hensley men work and Connie needed feeding and that was the only math I knew.

I'm not going to give you a recipe today. Today is just this: I survived. Twenty-five years ago, the mountain tried to keep me and didn't. Four men went in and four men came out and we never talked about it again, which is how men in Harlan County process trauma — by not processing it. I know that's wrong. I know Clay is dealing with something similar from a different mountain on a different continent. I know silence isn't healing. But silence is what I have, and this blog is the closest I've come to breaking it.

Tomorrow I'll make soup beans. Monday is soup beans. The world can fall in on you but Monday is still soup beans. Some things hold.

I said I wasn’t going to give you a recipe today, and I meant it — the story is the thing. But I also said tomorrow I’d make soup beans, and I keep my promises now, ever since a dark tunnel taught me to. This pork tenderloin stew isn’t exactly soup beans the way Betty made them, but it’s close enough — pork and broth and something warm going low and slow on the stove while the world does whatever it does outside. That’s the whole point. You make the pot. You let it cook. Some things hold.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 1 hr 15 min | Total Time: 1 hr 35 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1 1/2 lbs pork tenderloin, cut into 1-inch chunks
3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1 medium yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
3 medium carrots, sliced into coins
3 stalks celery, chopped
3 medium potatoes, peeled and cubed
1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes, undrained
4 cups low-sodium chicken or pork broth
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 bay leaf
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons cold water
Fresh parsley, chopped, for serving

Instructions

Season and sear the pork. Pat pork chunks dry and season with salt and pepper. Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a large heavy-bottomed pot or Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Working in batches, sear the pork on all sides until browned, about 2–3 minutes per side. Transfer to a plate and set aside.
Saute the aromatics. Add the remaining tablespoon of olive oil to the pot. Add onion and celery and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 5 minutes. Add garlic and cook 1 minute more until fragrant.
Build the stew. Return the seared pork to the pot. Add carrots, potatoes, diced tomatoes with their juices, broth, thyme, smoked paprika, and bay leaf. Stir to combine.
Simmer low and slow. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low. Cover and simmer for 50–60 minutes, until pork is very tender and vegetables are cooked through.
Thicken the broth. In a small bowl, whisk flour and cold water together until smooth. Stir the slurry into the stew and continue simmering uncovered for 10 minutes, until the broth thickens slightly. Remove and discard the bay leaf.
Taste and serve. Adjust seasoning with additional salt and pepper as needed. Ladle into bowls and top with fresh parsley.

Nutrition (per serving)

Pork Tenderloin Stew — Because Monday Is Still Soup Beans