Possibly the earliest task I was entrusted with in my grandmother’s kitchen was the shelling of peas and beans. The former I liked for the added benefit of being able to snack on the job. But it was the latter, the beans, that really fascinated me with their glowing, unpredictable colours. My grandmother must have been incredibly patient, marking time by varying her cooking routine while I examined every pod, sorted every bean into colour coded piles – always looking for the next surprising variation, the rarest speckled hues. I’ve always had a sneaking sympathy for Jack, of the beanstalk fame, who got into trouble for trading the cow he was sent to sell for a handful of “magic beans”. All those dazzling colours and patterns! How could you blame the lad for being taken in?
Chances are, if you peek into the kitchen garden of any home in Coorg, you’ll see a small bamboo frame supporting some rambling bean plants. My grandmother had one, and being sent off to gather the grown beans was excitement in itself. I know, I am easily pleased.
