Let's get right to the point: In the vegetal world, asparagus gets the lion's share of springtime love.
Which strikes me as an insult to our small, well-rounded friend, the pea.
Growing up next to Mom's massive garden, peas came in one (and only one) variety. If sugar snaps and snow peas were available in seed catalogs of the time, they never made an appearance.
For us, the wonders of spring were proper English peas: those charmingly plump pods equipped with a natural zipper: the kind where you snap off the stem, tug on the string, then finish the job by running a fingernail down the seam.
Mother often dispatched me to the back porch to shell those just-plucked beauties.
She must have known better.
As a child, I was a produce pirate.
Surely, my unsolicited romps through the raspberry patch left scratches on my arms. And those pinkish stains on my shirt were a dead giveaway that tomatoes that should have made it to the table had been gleefully devoured in the yard, with juice dribbling down my chin.