shelling peas
As I made this salad, I remembered something I didn’t realize I had forgotten. Sitting cross-legged, a bowl of shell peas in my lap, the memory came whooshing back to me, slipping over me and settling in like an old, worn-in sweatshirt: you might forget it’s stuffed in the corner of your closet, but once you find it, the comfort is undeniable. You know, you just know, that you should take it out more often—wear it, appreciate it, savor it.
As I unzipped those peas, splitting open the pods, running my thumb along the pods’ spines, releasing the tiny peas one by one, I recalled the slow plink, ping, plink that a different bowl of peas used to make as they hit the emptied out Cool Whip container my grandma handed me when I was a girl, sitting on her back porch, just before dinner. I could smell the pork chops, bone-in, on the grill, and could hear my grandpa’s gentle whistle, threading together a tune as he flipped the chops with a long, wood-handled spatula, and the sizzle each chop sent up when it hit the grill’s grates. I could see the fireflies flickering around the garden—lush and full to the bursting. It’s the same garden that produced those peas; they grew in a manner that made the child-size me think of the story of Jack and the Bean Stalk. I could feel the first licks of a cool breeze creeping up off Lake Superior. I could appreciate the stillness, the kind only found in tiny towns.
These peas, in other words, gave me back the memory of shelling peas on a regular old night spent at my grandparents’ house in Northern Minnesota in the summer.
I don’t remember how they cooked those peas, but I do remember eating at least as many as I shelled. They were impossibly fresh and grassy, crunchy, sweet and a little starchy. The taste was a shock at first: those peas bore no resemblance to the greyish-green contents of the cans that lined our cupboards. These were something else altogether.
The 2009 peas went into a salad—bright and fresh and summery. They sat atop a pile of baby arugula and ribbons of red-skinned carrots. It all got doused in a lemony vinaigrette, spiked with smoked paprika, and topped with crumbled feta. The forgotten memory might of have been a secret ingredient only I could taste, but the others at dinner that night quite liked the salad too.
Shell Pea, Carrot & Arugula Salad with Feta
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1/4 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
sea or kosher salt, to taste
fresh-cracked pepper, to taste
3-4 cups baby arugula
4 carrots, shaved into ribbons with a vegetable peeler
1 1/2 cup freshly shelled peas
3/4 cup freshly-crumbled feta
Whisk together the lemon juice, mustard and paprika in the bottom of a large bowl. Slowly whisk in the olive oil; season with salt and pepper. Add the arugula, carrots and peas to the bowl; toss to combine. Transfer the salad to a platter and top with feta.
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so lovely! the colors are so attractive and the story so sweet as well ~
Awesome shot of the peas! Wow!
Oh my dear, what a lovely memory. I have a similar remembrance of my Grandfather, so I thank you for bringing it back to me. I hadn’t thought of it in years. The salad looks gorgeous.
What a lovely salad, and gorgeous shots too. Shelling peas are one of my very favorite things in the world, and I find the act of shelling them to be so relaxing.
SHELLING PEAS
It’s summertime in the country,
And the kids buzz around like bees;
But, when that silver tub is place on the porch,
It’s time for shelling peas.
From the smallest to the oldest,
It’s something we’d all do;
At first, of course, the little ones,
Didn’t have a clue.
They’d watch to see just how it went,
And soon , they’d give a try;
Then look amazed as fingers stained,
As though dipped in purple dye.
When we’d first get started,
It seemed an insurmountable chore;
There looked like half a million peas,
Or maybe even more.
But, after we all got the flow,
We’d turn it into fun;
We’d have a race to see just who
Would be the first one done.
We’d each one have our own bowl,
and a paper sack;
We’s slip our fingers through the hull,
Then throw it empty back.
At last, when all the shells lay empty,
And a tub of peas was done;
We’d let the grownups take the haul,
Then look for some new fun.
Copyright 2008 Patricia Neely-Dorsey
from Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia-A Life in Poems
Wonderful story. As soon as you said “bowl of shell peas” and “memory,” I hoped it would be about shelling peas at Grandma’s — because that’s exactly what I flashed back to as well.
Shelling peas is fun. The opening, the snick, snick, snick as your thumb snaps them out of their shell. And they aren’t wet or messy, which is a rare bonus when dealing with food.
Thanks for the memory, so lushly written too.
What a wonderful story! I hope that my kids have many memories like this someday. Beautiful salad!
Gorgeous colours!
Beautiful salad. I have been greatly enjoying the peas over the past few weeks. I think Nichol’s had close to the last ones this week
What an amazing looking dish!
Such a beautiful way with words. You should write poetry or books silly lawyer! Thanks for sharing.
What beautiful carrots! I’m inspired to run out and get a few ingredients to make this for dinner.
What a delicious looking salad! Can I still find peas in any of the Chicago farmer’s markets?
What a beautiful story, and beautiful pictures, to boot. Just lovely. And as gorgeously green and plump as the shelling peas are (love that photo of the solo pod!), were those purple carrots?? Gorgeous!
I was able to find peas this weekend at the Wicker Park farmer’s market. I shelled them today and ate them with a similar salad for lunch. The fresh peas definitely made my day!
Kaitlyn: I saw them too, at Nichols Farm! So glad you found some.
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