
Chef Thomas
Baked Onions with Cream and Thyme
Whole onions surrendered to a low oven with cream and thyme until they collapse into something golden, sweet and yielding, the kind of side dish that quietly upstages everything else on the table.
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Dried marrowfat peas soaked overnight and simmered slowly until they give up and fall apart, finished with butter and torn mint into something the chip shop only half remembers.
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.
Quantity
300g
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
30g
Quantity
a few sprigs
leaves picked
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
a squeeze
Quantity
to taste
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| dried marrowfat peas | 300g |
| bicarbonate of soda | 1 teaspoon |
| unsalted butter | 30g |
| fresh mintleaves picked | a few sprigs |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| lemon juice | a squeeze |
| black pepper | to taste |
Put the marrowfat peas in a large bowl, add the bicarbonate of soda, and cover with plenty of cold water. They'll swell to nearly twice their size, so be generous. Leave them overnight, or for at least twelve hours. This is the step you can't skip. A dried pea that hasn't been properly soaked will sit in the pan for hours and never surrender.
Drain the soaked peas and rinse them well under cold running water. The soaking liquid will be murky and slightly foamy. Let it go. You want to start with clean peas and fresh water.
Put the peas in a saucepan with enough fresh water to cover them by a couple of centimetres. Bring to a gentle simmer, not a boil, and skim off any grey foam that rises in the first few minutes. Then turn the heat down low, put a lid on slightly ajar, and let them tick away. Stir every now and then. After thirty minutes or so, the peas will start to lose their shape. Some will still be whole, others will have gone soft and broken apart. That's what you want: a rough, uneven texture, not a smooth puree. If they look dry, add a splash of water. If they're too loose, cook uncovered for a few minutes more.
When the peas have reached a consistency somewhere between a mash and a thick porridge, take the pan off the heat. Stir in the butter and let it melt through. Tear the mint leaves and fold them in. Add a good squeeze of lemon, a generous pinch of salt, and some black pepper. Taste it. The lemon and mint should brighten everything without announcing themselves. You want to taste peas first, then butter, then just a whisper of something green and sharp at the edges. Adjust until it tastes right to you. Season and taste. Then taste again.
1 serving (about 200g)
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