Beans and Peppers and Tomatoes

My friend Francis loves gardening -- souls and vegetables. When I visited him and his wife this weekend, he sent me packing, as he does every summer guest. I came away with bags of basil, tomatillos, cayenne peppers, tomatoes, and green beans. It's the green beans I most love.

A sturdy vegetable, a green bean snaps in the fingers and, depending on how long it simmers on the stove, it snaps or slides on the way down. One evening, F's homegrown green beans snapped in a pepper and chicken stir-fry, but last night they slid, almost melting on my tongue with the taste of loamy earth, sweet and slightly acrid. In their company, I ate one of his just-ripe tomatoes and a small pork chop, all dreamy for their southernness. The green bean packs a punch and so does the liquid in which it simmers. From the pot, I licked the last drop, scooping up each of the little dots of seed on my happy tongue.

Only two fresh vegetables -- limas and beans -- remind me of childhood with instant recognition. I probably did it more than once, but I remember only one time for each delicacy when I sat with our housekeeper Lucille (whom I knew from the age of 8 on until she died when I was in my 30s) on the back steps and snapped and shelled.

There's something humble and bone-satisfying in the bean, just as there was in her generous heart and large hands.