You have a way with green beans. Your son loves your green beans. I knew of your green beans before I knew of you. He doesn't like my green beans, at least not as well. He chokes them down all right, but they just aren't yours.

I remember the evening I first learned of your green beans. Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah" streamed from the CD player in the car, and we drifted upon the empty road with the moon roof open. The stars shone brilliantly against the black tapestry of night and the nocturnal creatures began to stir.

It was one of those still moments, one of those instances when the world sighs contentedly and poses prettily for a photograph. I could tell Miles was mellow in the driver's seat. Most find it impossible to differentiate between a Miles riled and a Miles relaxed, but what can I say? It's a gift.

The sweet sadness of the song seemed to glide effortlessly with reflection, and I learned of your beans.

It was July of 2002, and I was still absorbing the nuances of the man who would be Mr. Laura. "Snap beans, fresh from the garden," he began. He reminded me of a Native American chief telling the story of how the world began. He ended his tale with a tear in his eye, the recollection having tugged at his heartstrings.

I made green beans last night. I didn't snap them as small as he likes them snapped. I like to eat things long and skinny....a mantra of "you are what you eat" repeating hopefully in my head. I steamed them, and sprinkled them with a pinch of onion flakes, garlic powder. I rarely season vegetables, as I like the way they taste naturally, so this effort was all in the name of your son.

I placed the spoon in the bowl and stepped away raising my arms to my side in the age-old salutation of, "Drop your face and chew, people!" I watched during the course of the meal as Miles took two helpings of beans. Secretly tickled, I waited until we were alone before I broached the subject. "Did you enjoy my beans!?" I realize this jealousy of your beans is one-sided, but it is not imagined!

Miles nodded innocently. "As much as your father's?" I pressed.

"Put it this way...they were the best green beans I've had in Wisconsin...in any state outside of Iowa." Slightly mollified, I was able to reach the tumult of my gloating process before realizing that the answer to my question was actually, "No." Sly devil.

So take this as a compliment: he may pick on you for not using broadband internet, or fuss at you for not having the inclination to order caller ID on your phone plan...but know that your green beans are flawless.