Our Bradford okra did right well this year, especially given its late start. It kept bearing right through September. We're saving these last pods for next spring's seeds.
Okra is a joy to grow and a joy to eat. Young Ben Drum had mixed feelings about it on page ten in my first novel, The Summer Boy.
On the hottest afternoon of the year, when the ridge-tops appeared vague and insubstantial in the blue haze of summer, Mary and her nephew worked together in her garden, picking okra.
“I hate okra,” declared the boy, “It prickles so when it’s hot.”
Mary’s smile collapsed into a laugh in spite of her valiant efforts to contain it, “You like it well enough pickled or fried. I love okra. When it is this hot, squash wilts in the shade, and peppers drop their blossoms before they set, but the heat just encourages my okra.”
“Because it comes from Africa, where it is hot all the time, Africans were brought amongst our folk as slaves, and gave us okra. Now what think you of that?”
Ben thought on it a moment; “I think that was mighty Christian of them.”
Mitchell, Henry. The Summer Boy (pp. 10-11). Alfie Dog Fiction. Kindle Edition.