PRODUCE

It’s not every day you find magic beans, but everyday beans have their own magic, writes PAULETTE WHITNEY.

Paulette Whitney on the magic of beans.

In 1865, in south-west Pennsylvania, John Mostoller spotted a wild goose in the stream that powered his family sawmill, shot it, then took it home for his mother to cook. I’m sure she felt the mix of emotions that often accompany gifts of wild meat. Gratitude and pleasurable anticipation, accompanied by thoughts of the gory task of removing feathers, feet and innards. While gutting the goose she found a handful of unusual looking beans in its crop and saved them for planting out that spring. The resulting beans, which became known as Mostoller Wild Goose, proved delicious fresh, shelled or dried, and, as a testament to their utility, we’re still growing them 150 years later. John’s mum, Sarah Mostoller, was my kind of woman.

Undoubtedly the Mostollers weren’t the first to grow these beans. Indigenous peoples of North America would have long been growing pole beans. They are, after all, a subsistence gardener’s dream. Not only do they provide soil fertility as they grow, they can be eaten fresh or dried for use in winter. I can imagine that goose gorging itself on somebody’s crop before making its fateful last descent into the Mostoller millpond.

While sowing seeds late last spring, ready for summer cropping, I steered away from the short-lived but bountiful bush beans that make up the bulk of Australia’s green-bean harvest. Bush beans are wonderful things. They burst through the soil, waste no time or energy on growing tall, thinking only of reproducing while the going is good, putting all their energy into producing beans before they drop dead, all in about 60 days. But, for the small-scale farmer, lacking access to technology like bean harvesting machines, they mean a sore back from crouching to harvest from small bushes.

Climbing beans are another matter. They spread tendrils throughout the season, twining their way up whatever support you give them, and producing beans along their stems as they grow, meaning you’ll have to squat to pick the first few handfuls, but can stand to harvest as the long season progresses.

Along with the Mostoller Wild

Goose we grow the heirloom named Lazy Housewife, so called because it’s stringless, thus saving the ‘“housewife” time. It’s sweet and crisp when fresh, then white, nutty and lovely dried. There’s another with two names, Lohrey’s Special and Natural Salt, named first for the northwest Tasmanian family that have been its custodians for 100 years, and second for the fact that it’s said to need no seasoning. It’s deep green, flecked with tiny purple streaks, and delicious, and produces a pretty, tan-coloured dried bean with black half-moons across its surface that any Jack would happily trade his mother’s cow for.

Our giant trellis will also sport Purple King, a purple bean that turns green when it’s cooked (a magic trick that delights children), as well as Climbing Butter, which is magnificent to harvest since the creamy yellow beans practically glow under the green canopy. Another variety on our trellis but one that many can’t abide the texture of (although it’s my favourite) is the Scarlet Runner. It produces flat beans with a rough skin that are sweet and crisp when young, but develop their best flavour when left to mature a little. Though at this point they’ll need stringing – a task best performed sitting with a companion and a pot between you, so you can chat as you work.

Mechanisation has made dried beans so cheap that small growers find it difficult to make them viable, but we’ve developed our own threshing technique. When the season is done, we pull off the dried plants, stuff them into doona covers and invite children to ride bikes over them until every pod is shattered. We then throw the plants into the air, watching pods and chaff winnow into the breeze, while their jewel-like seeds fall onto the sheets to keep us fed on baked beans, soups and stews through winter, and give us seed to begin it all again next spring.

We pull off the dried plants, stuff them into doona covers and invite children to ride bikes over them until every pod is shattered.