From the moment they rear their little heads — seed noggin, leaf-ears — out of our crusty clay soil, I fall in love with beans. The way, even as youngsters, that they politely tuck their leaves down at night and raise them to greet the day each morning. The patterns that emerge from twining so irregularly around whatever happens to be in their path, leaving loud cursive loops leading up to the runner’s final serif.
Sure, there’s something a bit dark about them — clambering up each other, grabbing desperately for light, using other things to support themselves rather than developing a strong enough stem on their own. But if it’s dark it’s also beautiful: the evolutionary efficiency, the speed of growth, the brilliance of the bean’s little dance that leads it to twine around objects. It’s a marvelous adaptation. (Have you ever seen a strangler fig? Gorgeously sinister.)
Next year, perhaps, we need to plant them further apart… there are sometimes five or six stalks to a single piece of fence wire, and I have a feeling it’s going to be tough trying to locate beans in the midst of this forest, come harvest-time. It’s practically a full-time job trying to hook errant runners onto the fencing, too.
Still, I enjoy the dance.