Family Inheritances WORDS LYNDA HALLINAN
Some people’s grandparents leave them monogrammed silverware and sporting memorabilia, handwritten recipe books and photo albums filled with the dour faces of the dearly departed. Others get crocheted blankets or home furnishings. My father inherited his grandfather's handmade oval oak table and, when my grandmother Pat died, I inherited her 1970s Formica-laminated faux-wood dining table. I also inherited Grandma Pat's love of gardening, but I'd like to think I'm a better cook. Not just because culinary times have changed but because I have half the number of mouths to feed each night—and considerably greater economic resources —than my grandmother did. Grandma Pat did terrible things to the produce Grandad Evan grew. Cauliflower and leeks regularly came a cropper in her pressure cooker. Scarlet runner beans were boiled until they were flaccid and grey. Marrows fit only for the compost heap were hacked into wedges, simmered to mush and smothered with white sauce. And as for broad beans? Grandma boiled them to buggery. My father was so scarred by his childhood experience of chewing through their rubbery skins and floury flesh that he made my mother vow, in a prenuptial agreement, never to cook them. Mum kept her word. Broad beans were banned from our home. I was an adult when I first encountered them, smashed with garlic, mint, lemon juice and feta on an Auckland cafe’s moreish bruschetta menu. Easy to grow and far easier to pod in family-sized quantities than peas, broad beans are a spring staple in my vegetable garden. Sown in autumn for spring feasting, or in spring for Christmas crops, they’re practically foolproof. The taller varieties, such as 'Aquadulce' and 'Exhibition Long Pod', require staking, but dwarf ‘Robin Hood’ grows only knee-high and is perfect for pots.
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