Freya and I strolled to the plot today in order to plant some well-soaked peas. They were pale and plump and practically indistinguishable from each other, the two varieties, Progress and Snap Daddy. Later I imagined myself, having spent an entire day shelling and pureeing peas for baby food, declaring, “I don’t think I’ll ever do that again!” I have the feeling that the carrot crop will yield more puree, more easily, and be the winner.
But I dislike peeling. And chopping. Primarily because I think the prep takes too much time, I dislike cooking, in general. I have been trying to improve the situation in the kitchen by buying or borrowing the proper (or simply time-saving) tools: an onion chopper, a zester, a mortar-and-pestle. Without these, if I confine myself to a knife alone, it’s as frustrating as trying to paint with a toothpick. It’s about efficiency, but it’s also about recognizing cooking as a skilled task with specialized accouterments. I’m actually hoping that by growing vegetables, I will relearn the sensual aspects of raw food, to relish the smells and textures of fresh, homegrown edibles on the cutting board, and this will elevate meals to a gift for my family.
I suppose the alternative is that I’ll end up with a nice crudité garden. There are worse things.