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I grew peas this year. Lots of peas. More peas than I could eat. And given that my husband ceremoniously declared that “they taste like grass,” the peas were indeed all mine to eat. I gave a bunch away to friends and ate loads every time I passed by their spot in the garden. Yet amazingly, when the time for pea season drew to an end last week, I still had a gallon sized bag of peas on the vine.

I have a new respect for my grandmother’s generation and the way they did things. I spent an hour yesterday shelling the peas and plopping their thick, juicy fruit into a bowl. The result? A huge pile of pea pods… and a very small bowl of peas.