Perfect Peas...You Can Grow That!

We're in serious countdown mode for spring...only 15 days, 5 hours, as of my most recent check. Hooray! But, my friends, you know what that means: it's time to get busy.

I know some of you are still buried in snow. I'm sorry. Here, in our zone 7b gardens, we're cleaning up beds, adding fresh compost, and—of course—planting peas.

Peas are one of the easiest, earliest, and most satisfying spring crops to grow. With two children who fuss about every vegetable served, I'm in heaven when I find something they'll eat without too much drama.

And they eat peas.

Peas get a bad rap. Too many generations grew up with the smelly, unfortunate canned peas that they were forced to choke down at the dinner table. 

Fresh-from-the-garden peas, however, share no resemblance to their canned cousins. These sweet, crunchy, garden treats often don't make it to our dinner table. Instead, they're eaten like candy, munched on while gardening, a handful plucked while playing with pups.

This year, however, I've planted enough peas to ensure they will accompany meals—and hopefully enough to harvest and store as well. While I planted peas in the main kitchen garden, more pea seeds await their new home in the potager. (Can someone please figure out how to add a few more hours to the day? I seriously need the extra time or a clone in order to get everything done. Thank you.)

Of course, I couldn't decide on just one variety. Instead, I selected six pea varieties for the gardens this spring. Golden Sweet, Blauwschokkers (Blue Podded Shelling), Amish Snap, Snowbird, English Sugar Snap, and Tom Thumb are all tucked into the cool soil.

But how do you decide which varieties to select? And how can you ensure good growth and harvest?

No worries. Peas are simple. I promise: You Can Grow That!

Selecting Seed

First, decide which type of pea you and your family enjoy the most. Do you love stir fry? You'll want to grow snow peas in your garden. Do you want to harvest and save peas for winter dishes? You'll want to add shelling peas. If you enjoy eating sweet, crunchy side dishes, sugar snap peas provide a delicious, nutritious addition to dinner.

Or, like me, you can grow a bit of each variety to cover all of your bases.

When selecting seed, you're looking for peas that have edible- or non-edible pods. Non-edible pods are the traditional shelling peas, which are quite labor-intensive. You won't win over the kids' taste buds if you enlist them to shell peas for hours.

Edible-podded peas include snap and snow peas. Snap peas are eaten similarly to snap beans—they are, after all, related. Simply remove the ends and pull off the string, et voilá! A tasty treat, ready for eating. You can also serve them cooked, but remember—less is more. There's nothing appetizing about mushy peas.

Snow pea pods are also eaten. However, they're traditionally picked before the pea inside the pod swells. These are the yummy flat peas most often associated with stir fry.

Of course, it would be too simple to have only two types of peas, right?

Then, we have dual-purpose peas. My purple podded and Golden Sweet varieties can be harvested small and eaten like snow peas, or I can allow them to ripen on the vine to produce shelling peas. (By default, I tend to get quite a few shelling peas when life gets too busy for daily harvesting.)

Grow

Peas benefit from an overnight soaking in water to speed germination. I've planted both straight and pre-sprouted seeds, and I've always enjoyed an earlier harvest from the pre-sprouted vines.

Sow seeds early, as soon as you can work the soil in the spring. (I also plant a second crop in the fall, and in our zone with a bit of frost covering—we harvested peas through December.) Space seeds 2-3” apart and plant at approximately ½-inch depth.

Peas thrive in well-drained, moist soil with good sun, approximately 6-8 hours. Honestly, though—our peas planted in the potager grow well with less than the recommended amount of sun. When planning crop rotation, peas often do well following potatoes, and brassica crops do well following peas, as they absorb the nitrogen that peas nodules provide if the roots remain in the ground.

Pea varieties range from two to 10 feet in height, with the tall varieties requiring trellises. I plant my peas in the same beds that held last season's tomatoes, taking advantage of the staking/trellising system that I used for the tomatoes. Rows of peas are planted on each side of the trellis. In our potager, peas trellis along the garden fence, which is not only practical—it's also pretty. Pea blossoms are a gorgeous addition to the edible garden.

Have limited space or no yard? Peas are an ideal crop for you. Because they grow vertically, you'll have room for other cool weather crops, like lettuce or Swiss chard. A large container and a tomato cage provide an easy method for balcony gardeners to enjoy peas, and the dwarf 'Tom Thumb' variety can easily reside in a window box.

There's really no excuse not to eat your peas.

Harvest

Keep pea vines well-harvested. The more you pick, the more peas the vine will produce. If you plan to eat the pods of 'Golden Sweet' or similar varieties, harvest the pods young. If you prefer shelling peas, make certain the pod is mature—you can see the swell of the peas within the pod.

Be careful when harvesting peas, though. Gently remove the pods with two hands. Trust me. I've been known to break vines in my haste to harvest peas. 

Eat

Unlike the nasty peas we faced as children, homegrown peas are an easy sell. Sweet and tender, they don't need much embellishment. Still, here's a delicious recipe for you to try with your lovely crop of homegrown peas:

(From Chez Panisse Vegetables by Alice Waters)

Snap Pea, Asparagus, and Turnip Ragout

Ingredients:

2 cups snap peas

3 spring onions

20 asparagus spears

10 baby turnips

2 carrots

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

Salt and pepper

1-1/2 teaspoon chopped garlic

1 cup vegetable stock or water

½ lemon

Remove the strings from the snap peas. Trim and peel the vegetables. Slice the vegetables so that they are all about the same size—about ¼ inch thick. The asparagus, snap peas, and carrots can be sliced on the diagonal. Parboil the carrots for 1 minute in salted water.

Heat a large sauté pan and add the olive oil and ½ tablespoon of the butter. When the oil is hot, add the vegetables, tossing often—first the turnips, then snap peas, onions, and asparagus, then the carrots. Cook each vegetable briefly before adding the next. Add salt and pepper. Taste for doneness—the vegetables should be tender. Add the garlic. Continue tossing until, as Ms. Waters writes, “...when the scent of garlic hits your nose, remove the vegetables from the pan.” (Yum!)

Deglaze the pan with the vegetable stock or water and add the remaining butter and a squeeze of lemon juice. Let the sauce reduce by one third and pour it over the vegetables. Serves 4.

Is it spring yet? I'm so ready for delicious peas and asparagus.

Now, out you go, into the garden with pea seeds in hand! Just think—in a few months, you will thank me for forcing you out into the cold to plant your peas.

And we'll both thank Alice Waters as we feast on her delicious recipe.

Happy gardening!

XOXO ~

Julie

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Goodness Grows in the Fall Garden.

I don't know why, but I'm always pleasantly surprised—amazed, even—when I plant seeds directly in the garden...

...and they actually grow.

Does this make me sound cynical? Perhaps a little. Instead, I like to think that I'm cautiously optimistic. With all of the wildlife surrounding our gardens, often I plant seeds knowing that I'm simply feeding some non-human creatures. So, I usually plant a little extra.

Two for the birds, one for the humans. Two for the mice, one for the humans.

Anyway...

Today, as I escaped the sickbay of our house and walked down to the large kitchen garden, the progress of the seedlings made my achy head feel a little better. Kristen, who has been home from school since Tuesday at noon with a tummy virus, kindly shared her germs with me.

Walking to the garden used all of my energy for the day. Plus some.

Three beds in the back garden contain fall crops, which are making decent progress. The other three beds are still producing cucumbers, peppers, and herbs, so those haven't been cleared yet. As soon as the garlic and onion sets arrive, though, the rest of the produce will be harvested, plants pulled and composted, soiled amended, and bulbs planted.

I also haven't touched the potager. It's still producing summer crops, but that, too, needs to be tackled.

But not today. I turned on the water, said hello to the chickens, and headed back inside to blearily tend my little couch potato.

 

Instead, I thought I'd share with you the fall varieties I'm growing in the first three beds. I've also set up a Pinterest Board if you'd like to see photos of each variety. All of the varieties are heirloom.

Bed 1

Brussels Sprouts ~ 'Long Island'

Cauliflower ~ 'Early Snowball'

Pac Choy ~ 'Prize Choy'

Leek ~ 'Prizetaker,' 'Blue Solaise'

Arugula

Bed 2

Swiss Chard ~ 'Silver Beet'

Cabbage ~ 'Mammoth Red,' 'Cour di Bue,' 'Early Jersey Wakefield'

Radish ~ 'Early Scarlet Globe,' 'Plum Purple,' 'French Breakfast'

Lettuce ~ 'Forellenschluss,' 'Flame,' 'Lolla Rossa,' 'Grandpa Admire's,' 'Red Romaine,'  'Rouge d'Hiver,' 'Tennis Ball,' 'Amish Deer Tongue'

Bed 3

Peas ~ 'Amish Snap,' 'Tom Thumb,' 'Golden Sweet'

Kale ~ 'Red Russian'

Carrots ~ 'Parisienne,' 'Dragon,' 'Scarlet Nantes'

Spinach ~ 'America,' 'Bloomsdale'

Lettuce ~ 'Forellenschluss (Yep, I planted this in both beds. It's my favorite.)

'Merveille des Quartre Saisons,' 'Yugoslavian Red Butter,' 'Crisp Mint'

Still to plant:

Purple Sprouting Broccoli

Romanesco Broccoli

Beets

Garlic ~ 'Purple Glazer,' 'Music,' 'Inchelium Red,' 'Lorz Italian'

French Shallots

Onions

Saffron Crocus

I also need to add the companion herbs around the perimeters of the beds to help repel cabbage worm, but that's a task for when my head recovers.

IF it recovers.

Hmmm...what am I missing? What is your favorite fall crop—and variety—to grow?

Are there any of your favorites that I should add to our gardens?

Whew. It's time to head back to the couch. Honestly, the viral visitors are welcome to leave anytime.

I think we need an exorcism. Or an extra large bottle of Lysol.

Hope you have a happy, healthy weekend!

Julie

The Accidental Vegetarian

It's mid-February. A show of hands, please: how many of us are still sticking with our New Year's resolutions?

Honestly, I'm not sure I made any resolutions this year. If I did, well, they were fleeting and of the altruistic, yet unquantifiable variety, such as “Be a kinder person.” You know, the types of resolutions that were intended to elicit similar responses from our kids: “I'll be nicer to my brother,” or “I'll help Mommy more around the house.”

Yep, we're not great about sticking with resolutions here.

Of course, because I'm a woman of a certain age whose metabolism flew the coop about five years ago, I always privately resolve to eat better and exercise more. I just don't speak those words out loud, because I know that the likelihood of me hitting the gym during the insanely busy spring growing season for my business is nil.

And, frankly, I refuse to deprive myself of red wine and chocolate.

So, imagine my shock when I became—inadvertently--a vegetarian.

This is a startling development for several reasons:

I grew up in a meat and potatoes family. Truly. Dinner centered around a roast beast, potatoes, white, squishy bread rolls, and maybe a salad. The overriding focus on meat was, I believe, a generational, socioeconomic attribute. Both of my parents grew up during the Depression. Our father often told stories of his life on the family farm, where the family celebrated the demise of a ill-fated chicken crossing the road with a rare fried-chicken dinner. He also raised a pet pig.

Trust me. You don't want to know what became of his pet.

I rarely ate a vegetable during my entire childhood. There's something to be said about being the baby of the family, particularly if you're a late-in-life, surprise baby. My siblings regaled me with dinner-table horror stories: gagging down ice cold, mushy peas until 10 p.m., eating a ketchup-covered banana that someone thought would be a creative way to avoid eating her fruit...

By the time I made an appearance, my parents were tired. It was easier to cater to my picky palate than deal with dinner drama. Thus, I became the pickiest eater in the Midwest. Not only did my mother make separate meals for me, I was never force-fed broccoli. Or peas. Or squash. My childhood vegetable consumption included:

• Iceburg lettuce—plain, thank you. No dressing or weird additions to my crunchy pale green leaves, please.
• Corn. With lots of butter and salt.
• Potatoes. Honestly, I don't think potatoes even count. And all of the GMOs in the corn probably negates any health benefits the corn theoretically provided.

Embarrassingly, my vegetable phobia continued well into my adulthood. Yes, I added a few bits of green to my repertoire—cucumbers, real lettuce, asparagus, spinach salad—but until five years ago, I didn't even eat tomatoes.

 

(Ironic, now that I own an organic, heirloom plant nursery, specializing in—160 varieties of tomatoes.)

As a mother, I created my family's meals much like my mother did—meat, starch, and occasional side of quickly microwaved peas. Yes, I added more veggies and began growing them as well, but meat took center stage at every meal. Granted—our meat was pristine, raised humanely by local farmers, some of whom are now friends. Our meat originated from happy, healthy animals living happy, healthy lives. Free-range chicken, grass-fed beef, heritage turkeys—delicious, star quality dinner showpieces.

Then, a strange twist of fate.

A raccoon attacked one of our hens. (If you missed the drama, you can read about it here.)

In those moments of holding Salt, trying to assess her wounds and comfort her, something shifted.

My perception about food changed.

I suddenly found myself unable to eat meat.

I thought my aversion was temporary. After all, our daughter, who loves her chickens as if they are her children, still relishes Zaxby's even after the demise of her pet.

But as days passed, I found myself reading Alice Waters' books, heading to Whole Foods, leaving with a cart full of stunning produce, and then trying to figure out how to cook it. And you know what?

It. Was. Good.

Fresh eggs and Swiss Chard frittata. Mushroom risotto. Ratatouille.

Who knew? (Actually, I think many people knew. It was like discovering an amazing secret club, and I'd finally earned admittance.)

Even the kids ate more vegetables. Put an asparagus spear on the plate of a six year old boy, and listen to the whines ensue—until you share the “stinky pee” secret.

It's amazing how much more appealing the asparagus became.

My husband joked that I shouldn't write about my emerging vegetarianism, because he knows my carnivorous ways too well. And who knows? Will it stick? Right now, after seven weeks without meat, I'm optimistic. And I feel good. I'm not vegan—I eat seafood, dairy products, and eggs, so meal planning is fairly easy. Plus, it's not like I banned chocolate and wine from my life—that would never stick. Actually, eating my veggies and forgoing meat is surprisingly simple.

Last fall, our oldest son brought his new girlfriend home for dinner. Prior to their arrival, he informed me that she was—gasp!--a vegetarian. Panic! What could I cook? If I made risotto, could I use chicken stock, or should I run to the store for vegetable broth? Would she be offended by the steak I already prepared for the family? How much salad does a vegetarian eat? I made more, just in case...

And honestly, I worried. How could this relationship work? Our son is a serious carnivore, like me. He even owns this t-shirt to taunt his vegetarian friends:

Funny thing. Our son is now on his third meat-free week.

And he likes it.

Love makes college boys do some crazy things, huh?

I'm not advocating vegetarianism. It's not my place to tell anyone what or how to eat. (Although I do hope you'll support your local farmers as much as possible, please.) I still eat crap occasionally. I'm—shamefully--addicted to Diet Coke. (I know, I know...it's really bad for me. I promise, I'll work on it.)

But this vegetarian thing?

Well. It's pretty delicious.

My parents should have made me eat my peas, after all.

Bon appetit!

Julie