During the summer of 2013, I walked on to my back porch with a pair of kitchen shears, a bowl, a plastic baggie, an ice-cold Corona Light, and several pounds of fresh, organic lima bean pods. The sun seared white light through the forest like laser rays. Birds chirped, but I couldn’t see my feathered friends through the dense, lush canopy of trees, not that I was bird watching that afternoon. I was grumbling actually. Whining is a better word. I had never shelled lima beans in my fifty-two years. Eloise, or Ebie for short, my CSA farmer, showed me how to pop open the pods with her tiny, arthritic hands. She said, “It’s so easy dear.” Ebie, at eighty-five is spry and sharp. I hope to be like her at that age. Despite her message and tip, I still needed shears. The summer of 2013 began with a weekly share from Ebie’s farm, Twin Maples Organics. Fresh produce trickled in. The basket was manageable. But by late summer, I was up to my arms in lima beans, edamame, green beans and greens. I’d bought a share with a different farmer the previous year, and I didn’t recall all the work involved. The mind has a funny way of remembering what it wants. During the late summer when harvest was at its peak, the basket was definitely too much for two. Those weeks where I had an overflow, I shared with
my neighbors, or plowed on with the freezing and preserving process, one that takes on a life of its own I discovered. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not whining about the CSA, but the lima beans. I love the benefits of being a part of a local, organic farming community. I volunteer, my basil-picking therapy I call it, and after one intense sweltering hot morning of weeding rows of strawberries and kale, I received my first bread starter from Ebie. She christened “Oscar” when she passed the bubbling beige mass in the Mason jar to me, along with a stained photocopy of her recipe and several variations for sourdough bread. I felt blessed that summer morning. But that late summer afternoon on my back porch, my thumbs were sore. And green. Suffice it to say, the farmer had planted plenty of lime beans. Fast forward to the 2014 winter ice storm. The days were filled with subzero temperatures, iced-over trees and knee-high snowdrifts. Flames flickered in the fireplace and crockpots of warm savory soups filled our bellies. Layers of blankets keep us cozy and warm at night. One bitter cold, ice-crusted morning I woke from a dream with a craving so strong, I couldn’t think of anything else. I needed those baby organic lima beans. The aroma of rich, strong coffee wafted back to the bedroom as the coffee pot
gurgled and beckoned from the kitchen. I poured a mug of black coffee then headed to the garage freezer where I’d stashed my summer harvest. That evening for dinner, I baked a chicken breast, roasted broccoli florets and lastly, simmered my beautiful baby lima beans. After a few minutes, I drained them and tossed in a pat of butter, then sprinkled them with kosher salt. A light toss, like an air kiss to both cheeks with a good friend. Some of my dreams I’d like to forget. Others I consult the dream books. Even for someone like me who lives to cook, eat, write, and repeat, it is rare I dream of a specific food, like those lima beans. Maybe my subconscious that cold winter morning was telling me what I really needed. A gentle reminder of those long hot summer days when the air was warm, fresh, and sweet, like my organic baby lima beans. A reminder that hard work pays off. A reminder to be grateful for the small stuff.
About Maureen C. Berry
I’m a flat-out, irrefutable seafood advocate, food writer and cook. And when I’m not, I take naps. I help people make better choices with all things seafood-related. Are you hungry for more about food, sustainable seafood, ocean conservation and the environment? Maybe you can’t wait to read more about my upcoming book, EATING SALMON? I invite you to join the conversation on Twitter and Facebook.