elizabethlevett

Where do you stand on this whole green bean thing?

In my experience you either like green beans or you violently dislike them. There doesn’t seem to be a middle ground. The controversy – sometimes so vehement – surrounding this most harmless, innocuous, and especially neutral little bean may seem inexplicable. But I think I can clear the air.

See I like green beans. I really do. I even love green beans under the right conditions. But I must confess, this wasn’t always the case. When I was a child, green beans on my dinner plate could stir a reaction in me of extreme distress, even revulsion. My dear mother, God rest her, always dished out something green at supper – either spinach or zucchini or green beans. We didn’t have the option of just taking a tiny bit of a sense of duty – no. My mother dished them out with a large serving spoon in more or less equal and generous portions. And we ate what was put in front of us.

In those days green beans, like so many other vegetables, came in a can. Canned green beans are bland and gooey enough to be downright British – on the aisle next to “Mushy Peas.” No matter how cheerful the label – it still spelled pathos. But my mother stocked up whenever she found “a special” on green beans. “Imagine, 29 cents a can,” she’d announce, delighted with herself, while piling a dozen or so of the loathsome tins into the pantry. The dread we felt was utter and complete.

These were worse than flavorless. They had a flavor – the taste of grey, the taste of despair. And somehow, though rendered absolutely limp from the process of canning, somehow canned green beans – string beans especially – conceal within their flesh a spiny seam, an offending radula that made them even more a chore to choke down. So yes, I do understand. I avoided green beans for years.

But then in my early 40’s all of this changed. It happened in France – the land of so many epiphanies. I was visiting dear friends in Toulouse and one day we went to the open air market in the town center. This was a lively and colorful place where robust tomatoes, tempting plums, and gorgeous bouquets were everywhere. We had loaded up our baskets with these fabulous treasures from local country farms and were almost ready to go when my friend mentioned something about finding Harry Corvair. (Who??) We walked among the stalls until my friend spotted what she’d been looking for and I froze in my tracks. There they were – mounds and mounds of green beans, string beans. No! They had followed me – they had found me even in France!

Now, I had been brought up to know a thing or two. For example, if you visit people who live in another country, you do what they do with some measure of grace. You do not say as one might in America – “But I can’t stand green beans.” It simply isn’t done. Or shouldn’t be.

Next thing you know I’m seated in my friends’ lovely little kitchen with a freshly rinsed pile of deep green string beans in front of me. I had been tasked with trimming them. Alright then. Stiff upper lip. Get on with it.

When all was set we sat in her garden, wildflowers in a vase, a colorful cloth on the table, glasses of wine, plates of fresh pasta all ready for a late lunch. There was no turning back. One must be gracious about these things. Especially in France.

So I speared a few with my fork and silently took in my first mouthful of green string beans in decades – ready for the worst. But wait – the clouds above me were parting and a chorus of angels filled the air with their songs! What astonishing goodness! What flavor! What texture – firm, yes, firm yet yielding. Oh bliss! Oh rapture! These were farm fresh and had been quickly blanched and then given a whirl in the skillet with some butter, shallots, and herbs. The flavor was nothing like those despair-worthy canned beans of my childhood. These little beans played a symphony of summer. Oh the wasted years.

Now I just smile when people say they can’t stand green beans. I’ll take them served with olive oil and lemon for a picnic or fried with heady Indian spices. I’ll take them in a Chinese restaurant with marvelous, savory sauce and strips of beef. The beans and I have made our peace. We had France together, after all and I will never speak ill of them again.

(Photo: Mireille Gibson, the market in Toulouse)