Mushy Peas

The smell of mushy peas cooking is the smell of something that doesn't need to prove itself. Earthy, starchy, quietly green. It fills the kitchen in a way that's more comforting than dramatic, the kind of smell that makes you check what's on the hob even though you already know.

I know what you're thinking. You can buy them in a tin. And you can, and sometimes I do, and there's no shame in it. But a tin of mushy peas and a pot of the real thing are two different foods living under the same name. The tinned sort is sweet, uniform, bright green in a way that doesn't quite occur in nature. The homemade sort is rougher, deeper, a kind of khaki green with whole peas still scattered through the mash. It tastes like what it is: a dried pea, brought back to life with water and time and a bit of butter.

This is Friday night food. Fish and chips food. But I make them on Tuesday as well, spooned next to a piece of grilled lamb or alongside a baked potato with nothing else. We're only making dinner. There are few better feelings than putting a warm plate in front of someone, and a bowl of mushy peas on the table, made from a bag of dried peas that cost almost nothing, is a good reminder that money and effort are not the same thing.

You do need to start the night before. The soaking can't be hurried. But the actual cooking is hands-off, a pan on the back of the stove doing its work while you do something else. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. If your peas are softer or firmer than mine, that's your kitchen, your rules.