Fava Bean Crostini with Shaved Pecorino

Start at the market. Look for fava pods that feel heavy, their seams still tight, their green bright and unblemished. Hold one in your hand. It should feel like spring.

This is Tuscan cooking at its most honest. The technique exists only to serve the ingredient. You blanch the beans briefly, peel away the pale skins to reveal what is underneath, and crush them with nothing more than olive oil, garlic, and salt. The bread gets charred. The pecorino gets shaved so thin it curls. That is all.

I learned this in Italy, where cooks treat the first favas of spring the way the French treat the first asparagus. There is ceremony in it. Not fussiness, but attention. You are marking a moment in the calendar, a fleeting window when these beans taste like nothing else on earth.

Every meal is a meaningful choice. When you buy favas from someone who grew them, when you take the time to peel each one, you are participating in something larger than dinner. The simplicity is the point. Perfect ingredients need almost nothing done to them.