After a day and a half of disgruntled toddler stunts, including floor art with markers, a rousing game of toss-the-baby-toys-behind-the-washing-machine, and related foul play, we already had cashed in the reserve patience banked from our recent vacation.
And then it was time for dinner, which was, as my toddler declared, "yuck"--a point neither my husband nor I could contest with straight faces.
The dish admittedly flopped on account of some overzealous additions. The end result was a sink stuffed with dishes and an unhinged, hungry toddler. And a tantrum of epic proportion--a spillover of pent up emotion that seemed, at the time, bottomless.
On a whim, my husband offered: "let's go pick Grandpa's beans," at which point, my toddler desisted, jammed his feet into his shoes and bolted for the door. His despair evaporated. Just. Like. That.
And did he ever pick beans. A box full of 'em. And when I asked whether he'd like to cook them, he gladly followed me inside, averting another wave of crises that could have stemmed from the usual "it's-time-to-go-in-dilemma."
In he marched, bean box cradled to chest. Up to the counter he climbed. Out came his knife.*
He cleaved and chopped and hacked. Then, into the boiling water went the bean parts.
And when they were barely tender, a quick rinse, a dash of pepper and salt, olive oil and vinegar. Down the hatch they disappeared, save for a few samples proudly handed out to all.
* * *
Much like the genius of Grandpa and Grandma, who planted these pole beans for us in the first place.
Much like the genius displayed by anyone who has ever broken ground and gotten little hands involved, a movement flourishing now as more people convert previously fallow land to grow food (see these links for more on the proliferation of community and urban gardening, the Food Not Lawns and Edible Estates projects, the rise of small-scale farmers farming other people's backyards, even farming of urban rooftops).
Getting kids into the garden surely yields more than teaching them about growing food. Or even knowing food. Or getting kids to fill their bellies with good food.
There's something even more basic at work. Something with a direct line to their emotional and social well-being. Though I know not how to name or measure or quantify it, yet. (In my attempt to explore this question, I stumbled on an interesting exchange in The Atlantic about assessing the value of school gardens and kitchen classrooms.)
As for cranky toddlers, I'm left wondering what else these beans can do.
* * *
We tumbled into bed grateful that, of all things, getting to the garden righted what felt wrong to him, gave him a place to dispense and redirect the static that accumulated in him over the course of a busy day. (And that he ate something green.)
Earlier that night, for story time, he chose Jon J. Muth's retelling of Stone Soup, where a trio of monks hoodwinked alienated community members into making vegetable soup together. When we reached the part where everyone contributes to the pot, he announced he'd like to add beans.
And also, poop. At which point, I realized that the magic had run its course.
*By knife, I'm referring to a beat-up blue plastic knife my Mom gave me a decade ago. It was billed as safe for the Teflon pans I do not own, so it was converted into a "training knife" for little fingers.
