These are the first green beans of the season.
At least I think it's the season. Surely if I plant them and they produce a green bean, then it's definitely the season.
I adore these slender green munchkins. I might even go so far as to say that I think they are the ant's pants. They are a marvelous with everything as far as I'm concerned; as part of the meat and three veg mainstay that we Australians love so much, in a stir fry, and steamed green beans with soy sauce and sesame seeds makes me cheery just looking at it.
And best of all, for some reason, they grow for me. You put in the bean, water it, and hey presto, a bean.
Wonders will never cease.
My intimacy with the green bean does not extend to everyone however, as I found out late last year. I gave a big handful to our fabulous neighbour Margaret, she and her husband are always giving me produce and I was dead proud to be giving her something besides eggs. She looked at them and thanked me, walked away, looked at them again, did an about face and came back.
"What are they?"
"Umm, Margaret they're beans. Green beans... French beans??"
"Well, I never. How do I cook them then?"
"Margaret, what planet are you living on?" (You can say these sorts of things to Margaret).
After explaining in detail the steaming process of the green bean, she seemed to be quite happy about it all, but I do wonder what her husband thought of the exotic delicacy she was serving up for dinner that night.
Margaret is about 80 and grew up in England. Does this explain the green bean black hole?