editorials

Peas, Please

A couple of weeks ago, our oldest nephew stopped by our home after a brief visit with my mother and stepfather who live in Toombs County.

“How was your visit with Mom and Johnny?” I asked after he got settled in.

“Good,” he answered. “But they shelled peas the whole time I was there.”

He looked somewhat perplexed.

“I mean, that’s pretty much all they did — shell peas,” he continued. “They have a couple of rows of peas in their garden. They picked them, then they sat down and shelled them. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes to shell peas.”

“Oh, I can believe it,” I answered. “I grew up shelling peas during the summer months. We all sat in the family room together with large pans balanced on our laps piled high with fresh peas. We shelled them and watched the Braves play on TV.”

He stared at me as if I was a dinosaur, and I guess at 55, I am.

“That’s when I developed a fondness for Major League Baseball,” I said as memories came flooding in. “I really loved Dale Murphy — the ‘Murph’ — and Phil Niekro threw a pretty good knuckleball.”

Watching baseball while we shelled peas helped pass the time, and we didn’t realize it back then, but we were learning the fine art of multitasking.

I continued my trip down memory lane.

“We threw our empty shells into brown paper Piggly Wiggly sacks,” I continued. “I can still hear the thud of the long pea husks hitting the sides of the sacks. The peas shot and rolled everywhere. We found pennies and peas — crowder peas, purple hull peas, butterbeans, etc. — under the seat cushions of the furniture.”

“Couldn’t you have taken them somewhere and paid to have them shelled for you?” he asked.

I pondered his question for a minute. I suppose my parents could have paid to have them shelled. I remember seeing pea shelling machines with rollers. Someone fed the pea pods in one at a time, and the peas squeezed out and continued from page

fell into a bucket or a drawer. So, yes, they could have paid to have them shelled, but why would they have done that? My brother, sister, and I were fantastic pea shellers, and we were free labor.

Shelling peas together was considered prime family bonding time. Our parents didn’t have to wonder if we were out with friends getting into trouble because we were sitting beside them shelling peas until our fingertips and fingernails were sore.

After a minute, I said, “There’s a lot of value in knowing how to do things. Just because you can pay someone to do something, doesn’t mean you should always go that route. I think that when you know how much time and effort go into preparing food to eat, it makes you more appreciative. Next time we are all down at Mom and Johnny’s house eating peas, pause and think about how much work those peas represent.”

I remember opening my family’s large freezer chest and seeing all the plastic bags filled with every kind of pea imaginable. It was a beautiful thing.

Just a few years ago, I was digging through my mother’s freezer only to find a bag of peas on the bottom with a label that read, “Cream 40, 7-23-92.” I froze understanding the significance of that bag — the last peas my father grew in his garden and shelled before he died in August that year. A wave of sadness rolled in.

So peas are important to me, and so is the tradition of growing them, shelling them, and preserving them. I recognize the historical significance of field peas — I’m sure they saved thousands of Southerners from starvation during and after the Great Depression. But it’s their flavor I love the most. There’s just nothing like fresh, farmto- fork peas simmered to perfection with a ham bone bobbing in the middle of the pot — a perfect complement to crispy cornbread.

Our nephew and I often joke that we are going to start a mail order business one day selling “those tiny green peas that are so delicious,” also known as Lady Cream Peas.

“We could make a fortune selling those little peas,” he has remarked through the years.

He’s probably right, but I cringe at the work involved. I think I should stick to writing.

During his visit to Lyons, my mother and stepfather gave our nephew some of their fresh peas to take home to North Carolina. He posted a photo of the peas on a plate on Facebook. I’m sure they were delicious, and most of all, I’m sure they tasted like home.