Beans. Masses of green beans have kept rolling in from the garden since before Christmas. Starting with a small welcome handful and proceeding to flood proportions. I've eaten them - squeaky and gorgeous at nearly every meal. (What will we have with our beans tonight?) I've frozen them, taken them to family in Adelaide, given bags full to neighbours and friends (worth a small fortune if the $9.99kg price in the supermarket is to be believed.)
The cold weather comes and the vines wither but there are still green bits and the beans appear on the counter - just left there. A bit like when Millie cat brings in something in her mouth and lays it before me for approval.
Today there was just one bean. Some get lost where they climb the orange tree and the pods dry but being brought up in the depression ('Mum, you were not.' No but I was a product of that thriftiness) we use the inner white seeds in soups.
Yesterday there was something on the counter - not a word spoken.
How do I know I am loved? I've 'bean' loved.
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