Just a tad on the ripe side
I have betrayed my peas.
It may be remarked upon as ironic that, after planning in January, ordering in February, planting in March, watering in April, and weeding in May, I have for the most part, neglected to harvest in June. And now, as heat pummels the garden and humidity sucks the very will to live from the yellowing, tangled vines, I find myself looking away in shame as I allocate precious water elsewhere and try to justify such wanton abandonment.
I had the best intentions of course. This year I studied the catalogs carefully, searching for a dwarf heirloom variety that would make growing peas more feasible within the confines of my small town garden. Year after year I battled six foot vines with four foot supports, vowing to take time in January to find the variety which promised manageable harvests in a confined space; yet every year, I gave my attention to sexier vegetables like tomatoes or green beans, and once again reached for the Big Box seed packets when early March came knocking. This year was different. I ordered a new variety, “Caroby de Maussane” – the name alone promising something special, and said goodbye forever to careless pea culture.
Two packets came, two packets were planted. Careful notes were made, and the machinations of various six legged creatures were thwarted. Tender, succulent vines grew and flourished in the cold days of early spring when trees and perennials perpetually hit the snooze alarm. As an added bonus, the blossoms burst forth in calming tones of violet and lavender, putting the plain white flowers of earlier years to shame. Soon they had reached the tips of the generous four foot pea sticks I had provided. Soon they had eclipsed the tips of the generous four foot pea sticks I had provided. So down to the garden went I, stakes and twine in hand to wrestle with rampant growth in a cultivar that had promised a more lady-like approach to its adolescence. I wasn’t too angry about it. After all, the blossoms were lovely, the only other thing growing with that sort of vigor were a few rows of kale and a six pack of cabbages, and the season ahead was full of promise. I was ready to forgive a little mislabeling by an overenthusiastic seed company.
Until they eclipsed my backup supports.
Looking back on it now, I suppose this is where I started to lose interest. The lettuce and spinach seedlings were beginning to show some promise and the kale was inviting me to fire up the sauté pan. I am ashamed to say that when the peas started to produce, I didn’t actually notice. A good friend mentioned eating her peas one night, and surprised, I ran down to the garden to find that mine, too, were covered in tiny pods.
Even when green, tomatoes don't play hide-and-seek
Now, before you throw stones and question my true dedication to matters green, I must just say one or two things in my defense. First, peas do not advertise like tomatoes or peppers. Whether it is evolutionary prowess or an ingenious cloaking device, peas generally defy the gardener’s cursory efforts to locate and pick a plateful. One must focus intently, and heaven forbid that you have other things on your mind, like a swarm of tiger mosquitoes juicing your legs, or that rib eye roast you forgot to take out of the freezer for dinner in twenty minutes. They simply hid from me.
Secondly, it’s not as though I didn’t harvest any of the peas, it’s just that I didn’t come close to enjoying the bounty that they were happily providing. Two suppers of stir fried beef and snap peas does not begin to address the amount of produce coming off of those vines. And to be perfectly truthful, my promising French variety lacked a certain…je ne sais quoi. They didn’t quite live up to expectations, were rather tough and stringy, and didn’t excite me enough to rush down to the garden every night and see if I could throw together another stir-fry miracle.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa.
And so I admit, they are yesterday’s news. Heavy yellow pods droop mournfully over fresh lines of carrots and remind me of my shameful neglect. Frugality is at the root of my guilt – so it’s possible that split pea soup is in their future, but then again, it’s equally possible that so is the compost pile. The heat has begun to dull my senses, and if I’m going to salvage anything from the brink of death, it will be the black raspberries – bearing early and drying up before my weary eyes.
It’s time to tear out spring’s bounty and put in some summer survivors. Perhaps I’ll dig through my seed packets and pull out those slender “La France” bush beans I’ve been meaning to try. You’d think I’d learn my lesson with les légumes français, but hey, the French always were better at beans.
