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Several years ago, while I still lived in Washington, I visited Dad in Harlem. It was during the last days when my step-mom was still able to do simple things for herself. She put the meal on the table.

She was never a good cook. She’d raised 11 children and her meals were made to feed hungry bellies. Nothing was thrown away, ever. I don’t remember the meal. Certainly a meat, potatoes, perhaps a cabbage slaw since it was toward the end of Dad’s garden. But I will never forget the green-beans.

Withered, shriveled, in a tiny bowl, perhaps eight or nine pieces of green-beans, snapped...