Steve Sando, I apologize. I’ve cheated on you and have purchased beans from elsewhere. I didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did. But, Steve, you can hardly blame me. I mean, just look at them:
If you really must know, Phipps Ranch was the one who seduced me away. They just have so many different varieties from which to choose. These Chestnut Runner beans for instance. Who can deny the inherent beauty of these beans? So plump and firm, retaining their shape yet easily giving under the slightest pressure.
Steve, I merely wish to help to spread the leguminous gospel. Can I help it if I can’t restrict myself to New World beans? Not that I have a problem with New World beans. Far from it. Your Good Mother Stallard bean still is tops in my book and nothing has yet approached it. A lovely, tasty bean. Delicate yet resiliant skin just barely containing a most flavorful flesh.
But still, a girl likes a little variety. Can she truly be blamed if her head is turned by a pile of Chestnut Runners, glistening with olive oil and dotted with green onion and flecks of thyme, piled atop slices of slices of heirloom tomato, a mist of freshly ground pepper showering the lot? I contest that she cannot and must not be held accountable for her actions when presented with such a sight. And if this plate is accompanied by toasted artisan bread over which fresh cloves of garlic have been rubbed and kosher salt sprinkled, and if a pint of homemade Stern Scrum Cider sits nearby… Well, I argue t’would be a crime not to partake in this feast.
So again, Steve, I beg you to accept my apology. I promise to return to the Rancho Gordo fold. But I can no longer promise to be faithful. I know you’ll understand.