“When I was growing up in England, I knew spring had finally arrived when my grandmother started tossing young, freshly shelled peas just barely blanched in boiling water with chopped fresh mint and a generous knob of butter. I loved the pure, sweet flavor of those peas and their amazing tenderness, with just a hint of crunch.” (FineCooking.com)
“When I shell out my peas, I always remember how my Dad first taught me to plant peas and later pick them and shell them out. I remember him telling me how when he was a kid, everyone helped shell out peas... him, his brothers, his parents, and his grandparents.
“They grew enough peas to eat fresh in the springtime and to can for the wintertime. That, my friends, is a lot of peas. I can imagine them all sitting on the front porch at the old farmhouse, shelling out peas, talking and telling stories.
“We don't have near enough of that kind of family time any more, do we?” (MayDreamsGardens.com)
Here is a poem that focuses on a man’s memories of his mother shelling peas and we encourage you to read it. Whistler, this poet concludes, might remember his mother in a rocking chair, but he gets to remember his mother shelling peas.
“the child in me revels in the peas and beans, because when I am shelling peas and snapping beans I am instantly and always transported back to my grandpa and grandma’s house. I can feel the sun on my back and the breeze in my hair—and the wind chimes are tinkling around me despite the fact that we have no wind chimes at our house. I can even hear my grandma’s screen door swinging open and shut. And maybe my grandma yelling at my grandpa because he just mowed her violets again—always a weed to him but never to her. And I am sneaking bites of fresh, raw peas—the best way to enjoy them, straight out of the pod, while my mom and grandma both admonish me not to eat them all.” (FlavorfulMemories.blogspot.com)
“I remember several times that my sisters and I were surprised when we woke up to a bushel of peas waiting for us under the weeping willow tree. It seemed to us that shelling the bushel would take all day. Mom suggested that we get right to it when my younger sister pointed this out to her! Any peas we did not eat in summer were stowed away in the deep freezer.” (DansPapers.com)
“Seeing the bowl in the cabinet conjured an immediate memory -- the pinging sound made when the first of the first shelled peas the bottom of the bowl, sitting in lawn chairs in the back yard with Mama under the shade of an old oak tree, watching my fingers turn purple.” (CSDispatch.com)
Hopefully these memories of shelled peas will inspire you to create dishes that will help your diners to take a trip down memory lane. We’d love to hear all about them – your culinary creations and the memories!