Little Gem, Peas and Summer Herbs

The peas came in on Saturday. Proper peas, in fat pods that split with a clean snap when you press your thumbnail along the seam. I stood at the kitchen counter eating half of them raw before they made it anywhere near a recipe. That's how you know they're ready.

This isn't really a recipe. It's an assembly. Little gems, quartered so you get that crisp, pale heart and the cupped leaves that hold the dressing. Raw peas, sweet enough to eat straight. Mint and dill, torn, not chopped, because chopping bruises them and loses the oils. A sharp, mustardy dressing that cuts through all that green sweetness and makes it sing. Ten minutes, start to finish. We're only making dinner.

I come back to this salad every June and keep making it until the peas are done. It sits beside grilled lamb or fish, or next to bread and cheese on a warm evening when nobody wants to stand at the stove. It's the sort of thing you put in the middle of the table and let people help themselves, which is, when you think about it, the best way to eat almost anything.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago. Three words: peas, mint, Tuesday. That's all it needed.