Ah, the pressure of it all!

After the white blossoms wither, the greens beans come in hard and fast. I go over the bean beds every day or two, always finding slim green seed pods ripe for picking.

The first rush of beans are always the easiest to pick; they perch at the top of the plants, flaunting their little bean selves in the sun. "Look at me!" they shout. "I'm a full grown green bean!" And then I end their beany pride with a single snap of the stem.

It's all right, though. I rarely mourn for guillotined beans. They taste too good. Especially the first "mess" of the year. Cooked to tender perfection in the pressure cooker. A pressure cooker? Hey, it worked for my mother, it works for me.

Pressure cookers have fallen out of favor these days. Their claim to fame – cooking food faster – has been quashed by microwave efficiency. My friends shudder at the thought of pressure cookers blowing their emergency valves, spewing hot food up to the ceiling. I just smile. They don't know what they're missing.

My old aluminum Mirro twins- a four quart for small loads and a six quart that would handle canning jars – have been my heavy artillery since I was a young bride back in the early '70s. I'd load up my Mirros, put in the rubber gasket to ensure a tight fit, plop the weight on top of the pointy pressure valve and wait for the unmistakeable jiggle that let me know when the steam was working its magic on whatever was sealed inside the pan.

The pressure cooker could put a pot roast on fast forward so dinner would be on time, even if I forgot to thaw. It was an ace at veggies: corn on the cob, fresh beets, green beans (with a little bacon grease for extra flavor).

Last summer, I replaced the Mirros with an upscale stainless steel cooker made in Switzerland. The new model has no weights or steamy jiggle. Instead, a small black knob rises sedately to reveal two red marks. The red marks indicate that the food inside is cooking and the timing can begin. Six minutes for green beans.

It was an odd adjustment; I found myself listening for the jiggle to reassure me that something was happening underneath the lid. But the black valve is silent. Almost stealthy.

Which is exactly the reason I burned an entire batch of beans last week. For 30 years, I have depended on the weight jiggling to alert me. Danger. Beans are cooking. Get in here and turn down the heat.

I'm a quick study. I set the timer for the next mess of beans. They are too precious to waste, either by leaving them in the garden to turn big and bumpy or to burn them in the "improved" pressure cooker. I miss my Mirro. But I still love my pressre cooked green beans.

Time to plant another succession crop. Gotta have 'em all summer long!

Wilting

A dozen sweet potato vines cower from the impending noontime sun, limp and wilted in their new bed. It's not their fault. Yesterday, I ripped them from their happy, crowded existence in Bed #2, pulled them apart and replanted them in Bed #14. It's for their own good. But they don't realize it yet.

When the vines arrived from the mail order nursery, in late May, I thought they were dead. I registered a complaint with the Customer Service Department. The Customer Service Associate assured me that people often mistakenly believed the vines were DOA (dead on arrival) but that they would perk up after I planted them. She even went so far as to suggest that I prune the dead leaves off and plant only the stubs of the plants.

I didn't prune and there was no time for intensive care for my sad sweet potato slips. So I did some triage: dug a small hole in Bed 2, stuck the dying roots in the ground and patted soil around them. It's calling "heeling in," a temporary solution used to care for plants until I can get them in their proper place.

A month later, half the plants had taken root, started spreading vines along the top of the soil and were anchoring new rootlets. Heck, if they were interested in growing, I might as well given them some room to do so. Bed #14 beckoned.

Now, the plants are tender and vulnerable. I'll have to water twice a day for a week or so, making it easy for their tattered roots to take up moisture. Eventually, the roots will gingerly anchor themselves in this strange new soil and begin to move forward.

The plants would have grown in Bed #2, too. But their growth would have been limited; they would have fought for space and nutrients. They never would have lived up to their full potential.

I emphathize with those wilty vines. I've been there, floundering in unfamiliar territory, certain that I'd made a mistake. And then, I'd discover that the discomfort transformed into greater joy than I'd ever experienced in my safe secure nest. There really IS a bigger picture, usually invisible to me. So I can trust that things will turn out just the way they are supposed to. Perfectly, in fact. Discomfort or no.

Next time I bump into the messy chaos of my own confusion and fear, I'll take a tip from my sweet potato vines. Give them some extra water for a while, let them regroup and they'll grow wild and wonderful. So will I.

Goldfish and green water

We've had a two-foot deep hole in the front yard for several years now. It was originally conceived as a "water feature" with aquatic plants, an array of fish, and phlox growing among the rocks along the edge. It was quite nice. And high maintenance.

The water turned cloudy; we added a UV light to kill bacteria. The water hyacinths failed to bloom; we replaced them with a lily more suited for semi shade. We fed special tablets to the water every week. In the fall, we even covered the water with netting: leaf mold prevention. And there was the floating heater in the winter to keep the surface clear of ice so the fish would have enough oxygen.

Last summer, the curvy plastic liner sprang a small leak, so I asked the landscape guys to dig us another, larger pond near the rock wall (what? am I crazy?). The new kidney-shaped pond was beautiful. Our energetic little goldfish scampered around in the clear water, darting in and out of the floating parrot feather. Our grande dame water lily pushed out fabulous blooms every morning.

But gradually the water turned murky. The larger pond required a larger pump, but we had no idea what to buy. So we bought...nothing. Our polite fish pond morphed into a farm pond. Assertive bullfrogs took control of the property, harrumphing loudly. The plants floundered; the goldfish disappeared. We assumed raccoons or transient birds had feasted on the tender fishlings.

Thursday, the pond people came in to set things right. They put in a new skimmer, powerful pump, fresh water and fertilizer for the plants. They even found the goldfish, who apparently had been hiding in the dark, doing a lot of reproducing! It was great to see the pond restored to its former glory!

I went over to admire it this afternoon. The goldfish looked a little fuzzy. I couldn't see the bottom of the pond. The water looked a little ...green. Here we go again. Bring on the UV light and water conditioner tablets. I've got to keep my goldfish happy.