At Table: Peas

There were fresh peas at Saturday's farmers' market. And while in the past I've thought it a pity to throw away the taut, new pods, which seem so edible in themselves, the peas inside these were so plump and round and efficiently packed into their tidy rows, I had no qualms about parting with their wrappers.

I blanched them for two minutes in salted boiling water and then threw them into a cold bath. I did the same with some thin asparagus, and once both were chilled and dry I tossed them with salt, pepper, lemon juice, olive oil, torn mint leaves and shavings of a sharp Pecorino, trying for an approximation of the spring salad at Al Di La.

There was a toasted baguette and some smoked trout, and also another little side dish of roasted beets with a runny goat cheese and the beet greens sautéed until just limp, and it was all very nice. But, because I read M.F.K. Fisher's An Alphabet for Gourmets years ago, and have yet to separate fresh peas from her life-changingly good "P is for Peas" essay, a part of me wished we were instead eating them with nothing but the salt and pepper, an offensively large pat of butter, and a glass of rose that had been chilled in a garden fountain.

Ms. Fisher at work:

I stirred up the fire. When the scant half-inch of water boiled, I tossed in the peas, a good six quarts or more, and slapped on the heavy lid as if a devil might get out. The minute steam showed I shook the whole like mad. Someone brought me a curl of thin pink ham and a glass of wine cold from the fountain. Revivified, if that were any more possible, I shook the pot again.

I look up at the terrace, a shambles of sawed beams, cement mixers, and empty sardine tins left from the workmen’s lunches. There sat most of the people in the world I loved, in a thin light that was pink with Alpen glow, blue with a veil of pine smoke from the hearth. Their voices sang with a certain remoteness into the clear air, and suddenly from across the curve of the Lower Corniche a cow in Monsieur Rogivue’s orchard moved her head among the meadow flowers and shook her bell in a slow, melodious rhythm, a kind of hymn. My father lifted up his face at the sweet sound and, his fists all stained with green-pea juice, said passionately, “God, but I feel good!” I felt near to tears.

The peas were now done. After one more shake I whipped off the lid and threw in a big pat of butter, which had a bas-relief of William Tell upon it. I shook in salt, ground in pepper, and then swirled the pot over the low flames until Tell had disappeared. Then I ran like hell, up the path lined with candytuft and pinks, past the fountain where bottles shone promisingly through the crystal water, to the table.