There's a plot of land that lays barren for 8 months out of the year in the yard of my childhood home. During the fall, I watched the plot get tilled. The winter’s ice made that plot feel like landing on the moon. The spring came and my parents would revisit their seed collection. They would plan a trip to get their hands on the crops they were excited to grow. The plot was planted counter clockwise. First the cucumbers then the green beans, the squash, the peppers, the tomatoes, the eggplant, and lastly the corn. Some years a whole crop wouldn’t show and other years it was as if they were weeds. What was fascinating was my parents' pursuit of growing green beans.
I never cared for the taste. Green beans have a waxy exterior that if rubbed leaves an odd smell lingering on the tips of your fingers. Any vegetal smells and tastes upturned my stomach that was conditioned for veal parm and fried bologna sandwiches. Both my parents could eat boiled green beans with gusto. Every year, never tiring, simply returning to an old friend. Mystified, I never imagined I would come around to loving wax beans as much as they did.
A pot of boiling (adequately) salted water is a prime bath for wax beans. The vegetal forward nature of the beans subsides and a subtle sweetness rises. The French have judiciously protected the garden-esque integrity of vegetables, but I prefer the Italian method. Italians really cook their vegetables. I find this experience to be immensely pleasurable. I choose to “pirate” my cooking, blending one country's known recipe with another country's epicurean mindset. When French people make wax beans, they shock them in ice water, preserving the natural color and crisp shape. The Italian way of cooking wax beans is superior. Tender, silky strands of wax beans split lengthwise becoming something new entirely. These mindful choices are built on a theory I have about appropriately making something a little bit more delicious than the original. Kind of a “baby steps'' approach.
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