Confession, I'm a hater

I hate peas. Always have, always will. I hate the smell of peas, the sight of peas, even typing about peas. I hate them worse than any food I've ever tasted. Cooked or in salad, you can't hide them from me and I hate them.

When I was a kid my parents had rule that you had to clean your plate at mealtime. But when peas were on that plate, eventually the rule changed to "you have to at least try everything on your plate." That still wasn't good enough for me because I wasn't touching those detestable things, and before it was all said and done it became "you have to eat one pea."

I would sit at the table staring at that one damn pea on my plate when everyone else had finished and even while my mom and grandma were doing their dishes. I sat there adamantly refusing to swallow that filthy, gritty, slimy vegetable. Eventually, I'd win and Grandma would say: "Fine, just go."

So, thankfully, God made snow peas a few years ago. I don't know where these things were when I was a kid but they would've saved me a lot of trouble. Because I love these things. Raw, buttered, sautéed, in Chinese food, love 'em.

And they are easy to grow. And when you've got that long-winter itch, they are also one of the first things you can plant in your garden because they love the cool weather.

So mine are blossoming this week and should be picking some in a few days. I will be enjoying every bite and wishing my grandma had planted them instead of the putrid balls of green pus people call garden peas.