I'm a fan of okra, eating it and growing it. It doesn't seem to care how hot it is, it will keep going along with peppers.

My mother taught me to love the taste. She would make a big pot of green beans with a slab of salt pork. When the beans had boiled into submission she added new potatoes and topped everything with the smallest okra she could pick.

We stood over the pot together, each of us with a fork. We would eat all of the okra before it had a chance to make it to the table. Bite it just past the woody top and pull. That mouthful of startling textures--the slight sliminess, the round seeds inside of the pod, the skin a little bit rough.

When the garden gives up, okra stands.