A study in black-eyed peas

Apparently I can choose when to pick these? Apparently, it’s up to me.

The green are a little under for my picking tastes. Too much webbing. Too little food for the effort lacking strings.

The tinged are trying. Almost there. String but not strongly so.

The robust red. The insistent burgundy. The no-confusing-you. Those are the ones, I think. Those are the beauts.

At least, until we cook them and study once more.

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And then, we reap.

With these from feet away and peas in the salad picked moments before, our meal is made.

The beans will be ready for a first pick tomorrow or the next day. The peas will have their last harvest the next day or tomorrow. The tides turn with their speed. The earth spins with hers. The garden moves at its own pace. I’m merely here to watch it turn.

Around and around it goes.

From soil to seed to pan to freezer to pot to pile to soil.

There’s now a “stock bag” in the freezer as a permanent resident. Carrot tops, onion skins, garlic butts, celery ends: they all go in the bag as they depart from their meatier bits that are bound for the pan.

When the bag is full, it goes in a pan to boil and salt, salt and boil, until there’s the most lovely green broth with which to base a soup.

The simmered remnants go to the compost pile, where they transform into soil to feed the future harvest of carrots and onions…