Beans and Nothingness

Clomp, clomp, clomp. Down to the garden for the first time in the cool weather with my Frankenstein boot.

What does Nature do when you turn your back? Surprise you.

Six weeks ago when I had foot surgery and disappeared into my couch I had given up on my beans. Runner beans, Blue Lake, which makes them sound more poetic than what they are – just plain old string beans. I had vines galore, yes. But no fruit.

Today… a bumper crop, scaling the brawny sunflower that’s hanging it’s heavy head down, waiting for the birds. Ready for boiling and buttering and serving alongside a pork roast on Sunday, which is just what I plan on doing.

Beans and Nothingness

Never give up. I planted those things in mid-May and it’s taken them four months to proclaim their bean-ness.

In the weeds and vines that have overtaken the ground I found other prizes. Dahlias. I planted about two dozen, having never tried before, and here were two lavender beauties with their cupped, pointed petal tips. And a jolly pint-size butternut squash, the first I’ve ever attempted to cultivate.


I asked Gil to cut all the cukes and zucchini that had waited patiently to be harvested all those weeks I was gone.

big uns

They’re monsters, of course, as big as my big boot. Good for nothing, culinarily. Only useful for proving what happens when you turn your back on something with the inherent ability to grow. Like the idea for a novel, which expands out of fertile soil when you’re busy doing something else.


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Filed under Cooking, Home, Jean Zimmerman, Nature, Writing

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