This Saturday I decided to let the Farmer's Market dictate my weekly menu. I still have squash and zucchini in the fridge for pasta with pesto so I tried real hard not to be lured in by the bounty of squashes at the market. I wanted Brussel's sprouts, but instead found cabbage sprouts. I've never even heard of such a thing but as the farmer talked about their sweet tender goodness, I was sold. I'll turn them into a stir-fry with tofu. I also wanted black-eyed peas. The crispness in the air gave me a craving for stewed tomatoes and okra and black-eyed peas. I found purple hulled peas which I suspect are really black-eyed peas.

When I was really little, we had a huge garden. I just remember it being so big. I remember the hours of weeding, shucking corn (I hate corn worms!), and shelling peas. We would sit on the tailgate of my dad's old blue Ford pick-up truck and shell peas until our fingers were purple and raw. All of that flooded back to me as I sat shelling peas yesterday. I remember how I hated it, would whine and complain. Now I was doing it willingly, without complaint because I know now that nothing tastes better then fresh shelled peas. That stuff that comes in a can? That stuff tastes like dirt. I suppose I should thank my parents for teaching me these things.