 | These beans waited for me in the produce market. Every time I shopped, they called to me. |
“Yvonne,” they said, “take us home.” Not being that crazy about beans, I ignored their pleas. Finally, I gave in to their siren song and bought a handful. After all, they looked beautiful.
I asked the clerk how to cook them, and she told me to shell them (I got that through her hand motions, not her French words), boil them (also hand motions), put salt on them, and eat them hot or cold. She kissed her fingertips and rolled her eyes. These must be some beans!
I brought them home and followed the clerk’s directions. They tasted like beans. Just beans. Like red beans, but bigger. Who needed bigger red beans? Not me.
Being middle aged, I appreciate vegetables more and more. Mostly out of necessity, but also out of appreciation for what God’s good earth gives us. Beans, however, don’t make the cut. Unless they’re refried with salty sturdy tortilla chips. Then we’ll talk.
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I asked the clerk how to cook them, and she told me to shell them (I got that through her hand motions, not her French words), boil them (also hand motions), put salt on them, and eat them hot or cold. She kissed her fingertips and rolled her eyes. These must be some beans!
I brought them home and followed the clerk’s directions. They tasted like beans. Just beans. Like red beans, but bigger. Who needed bigger red beans? Not me.
Being middle aged, I appreciate vegetables more and more. Mostly out of necessity, but also out of appreciation for what God’s good earth gives us. Beans, however, don’t make the cut. Unless they’re refried with salty sturdy tortilla chips. Then we’ll talk.
PREVIOUS: Creepy Things at a French Street Market
NEXT: Living in Paris is Like