Grow – Cook – Make

It is is often said that planting a seed is an act of faith. Well, I guess I am a gardener of little faith, because I do more than my fair share of fretting and fearing over every little seed I put in the ground. Specially in the fall when I plant peas.

Planting peas in February, March, no problem, no anxiety, no fretting. I’ll get an abundant crop, more peas than I know what to do with. In the fall… well, that’s another story. The plants will be stunted, soon to be prey to whatever mildew seems to be doing the rounds at the time (powdery or downy, a matter for a future post). They turn brown under that fuzzy yucky cottony mess and I need to pull the plants out. No peas, or at most, a few sorry, bitter pods. I like my peas green and sweet, my plants healthy, and also green.

I remain undaunted, and keep at it, fall after fall, convinced that it is a matter of getting the timing right. I plant a new batch of peas every couple of weeks, hoping to hit a stretch where nights are cool, and days are dry enough but not too hot, while I still have enough daylight hours. This all has to hold for long enough to bring a crop to term. About two months.

This year, so far, I’ve got it. Today the seeds I planted back in September are healthy and strong snow pea plants, climbing, tendrils outstretched, grasping at the trellis and each other. I am writing this with trepidation — the mildew attack may be just around the corner, waiting for complacency to lower my guard. For now, no mildew in sight, the plants are blooming, tiny new pods are coming out of those flowers, and I am starting to believe. In two weeks I will be taking handfuls of peas up to the kitchen, ready for dinner.

I planted them a week or so ago. A mix of mustard, kale and arugula for stir fries and wilted greens salads.

We’ve been having sunny days and cool nights, surprisingly stable weather for this time of year in southern California, warmer than usual. The new plants are now–eight days later–peaking out of the ground like a miniature forest, a wee world of fairies and gnomes, bursting with green, and energy, and life force.

In about six to eight weeks they’ll be ready for harvest. This is our dinner for the middle of winter.

I am looking at this patch of rich dirt, with little bits of green poking here and there. I see oil swirling around in a hot wok, leaves jumping and turning, a tablespoon of balsamic vinegar added at the last minute. Quick, here, the plates. Drop a bunch of greens on each one, a slice of goat cheese out of the oven on top, a few toasted nuts. Please, pass the pepper.

This is what I see when I look at the ground, now, in late November. By mid January I hope to photograph for you just this meal.