June Peas

Like a lot of us who grew up in the ‘80s, I have deeply ingrained food memories tied to red and white cans marked with a golden seal. Sometimes, the contents of these cans were poured into a crockpot in the morning for an easy pot roast at night. Sometimes, they ended up in a casserole topped with crushed crackers.

Sometimes, we just heated up the soup and ate it. (With crushed crackers.)

Everyone had their favorite: Tomato, Chicken with Stars, Vegetable Beef. I was the oddball kid who loved Cream of Mushroom. For my dad, it was Split Pea and Ham. That last one maybe isn’t for everyone, either. We don’t tend to use the descriptor “color of pea soup” in a flattering way.

But pea soup has its charms. The salty flavor of the ham bouncing off the sweetness of the peas, for one. The way those little lumps of pea, however unappealing they look in the bowl, dissolve playfully in your mouth. And on a cold winter day, that soup was like a cozy blanket. Just the smell of it bubbling in the pot made me feel warm. Safe. Content.

I can see my dad sitting at the dining room table of our cramped barracks in Germany, crushing oyster crackers over his bowl of split pea and ham before diving in. The domestic chaos wrought by two high-energy kids was probably unfolding around him, but his face looks peaceful. Content. (My dad says, to get the whole experience, you need canned sardines in mustard. The kind you open with a little, metal key. I will let you decide.)

In February, as Eric and I talked about what would be in season come spring and summer, I turned to him and said, “Wouldn’t it be cool if we could make a split pea and ham soup, but with fresh peas? Turn it on its head, make it light? I want to do this as an homage to my dad for Father’s Day.”

I wasn’t sure he’d get the idea, not having the specific attachments to people and places that I did. Turns out, he’s a major split pea & ham soup fan. Of course he is.

So, we sketched it out, and then waited patiently for the peas to arrive. And now they’re finally here, June Peas from Old North Farm. Tightly packed in a row and ready to bust out of their pods, like a botanical jailbreak. You can pop a raw one in your mouth and taste the youthful freshness of early summer. Cook them for just a little, though, and their starchiness becomes sweetness, their dull crunch a pleasant pop, their matte color a vibrant emerald. There is nothing else like it.

I’d happily eat a bowl of just this, but that wasn’t the mission we gave ourselves. We still need ham.

Eric chose ham hocks for their intense flavor and tenderness. We give them a good soak in a salty brine, then smoke them until the meat falls effortlessly away from the bones. The bones get put to good use, too, as the base for our stock. This process, which takes two days, yields a paradoxical stock that is simultaneously rich and light. I’d happily eat a bowl of just this, too.

To pull it all together, we spoon the lightly marinated peas into a bowl, then top them with ham hock and—of course—crushed crackers. At the table, we pour the warm stock around this mixture. That’s it. Altogether different from its porridge-like counterpart, but still rooted in comfort and simplicity.

The first night we served it, a mother and her son took their first bite, looked at each other and simultaneously said, “Grandma.”

Something like this has happened a number of times since. I had hoped our guests would enjoy it, of course, and was eager to share its back story. But I didn’t expect the personal stories shared in return, about close family members who also enjoyed a hot bowl of split pea and ham.

I should have, though, because food memories are often actually memories of people and places that we love.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

A special thank you to Old North Farm and Harmony Ridge for making this dish possible.