Ode To Peas
Peas don’t get much respect. Last spring, when I received my five-pound bag from Johnny’s Selected Seeds filled with wrinkled nuggets labeled “Sugar Ann, Snap Peas,” I was unimpressed, but excited to get something in the thawed ground. I planted about half the garden in peas, and almost instantly began to regret it. The weather warmed. The days lengthened. And the massive pea plants just seemed to be taking up space. I was poised to rip them out. But then, as if they sensed my disdain, they began pumping out a seemingly endless supply of juicy, viridian treats that sustained my wife and me for weeks, with plenty left to give to friends, family, and neighbors, and to stock our freezer with purees and blanched peas.
These horticultural Rodney Dangerfields (Remember they were the model for Mendel’s study of genetics.)—are truly the workhorse of the garden. “We always had peas in the garden,” said Richard Hendrickson, a farmer, weather observer, and historian in Bridgehampton. “They were very, very important as the first spring vegetable, and I say they were super good. There is nothing closer to a farmer’s housewife than good fresh garden peas. And they tasted the best after a long, dry winter of nothing more than pancakes, salt pork, and bacon.”
