The garden is in full swing again, and we’re at the ‘buried in beans’ stage. I’m blanching and freezing and pickling, and still the beans keep coming. I’m starting to dream about beans. So you can imagine my freaked-out chagrin last week when I found a bean in my bed.
I’d like to say I have no idea how it got there, but the truth is I’m pretty sure I know. Freshly-picked string beans are like VelcroTM: They’re covered with microscopic hairs that cling to everything, particularly synthetic fabrics like fleece and yoga pants. Also, to human hair.
Yes, there is a reason why I know that.
I originally discovered the VelcroTM-like properties of beans back in the dark days when I still had to wear business suits and attend meetings to make a living. I had been to an important business luncheon and had schmoozed appropriately. Afterward, I retreated to my car with a measure of pride: I had gotten through the entire luncheon without committing any social gaffes or spilling anything on my nice clothes.
I let my head fall back on the headrest as I blew out a relieved sigh, and my upturned gaze snagged on my reflection in the rearview mirror.
Yep, I had a green bean lodged in the ends of my long hair. At some point I must have leaned too close to my plate, and its perfidious little hairs had latched on.
I mentally replayed the conversations I’d had at the luncheon and concluded (with my usual semi-delusional optimism) that nobody had noticed. Or maybe they were all just people with superhuman self-control. In any case, nobody raised an eyebrow and/or pointed out that I had a renegade legume attached to my person.
So, it was with a sense of rueful déjà vu that I picked the offending bean out of my bedsheets last week. It brought back a cringeworthy memory; but at least the bean didn’t get lodged in any truly embarrassing personal places.
That would have been a little tricky to explain to Hubby.
Anybody else ever unwittingly hosted a sneaky vegetable?